


I Think I'm Growing Into Someone You Could Trust

by thechoicewasallmine



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Coming Out, Crying, Depression, Domestic Violence, Hockey Injuries, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, literally crying in every chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-20 07:30:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 64,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechoicewasallmine/pseuds/thechoicewasallmine
Summary: Coach slams his fist against his desk and Will flinches, prepared for the anger, but not at all prepared for the concern in the man's eyes when he looks down at him."I want to help you, Poindexter, I really do. You're important to this team and the organization is proud to have you; but, son, I can't fix what I don't know about." His gaze drills right into Will's carefully crafted armor when he pleads, "You've got to talk to us."One conversation at a time, Dex learns to stop hiding from his team and, ultimately, from himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Ange, stop starting new fics when you have old ones to finish."  
No.  
I was going to upload this as three or four long chapters separated by class year, but I decided to go with shorter moments instead; I'm much more likely to write and updated regularly that way.  
Title, once again, from "I don't like who I was then" by The Wonder Years

William Poindexter shakes out his hands, takes a deep breath, and raps his knuckles against the doorframe. 

“Hey coach, do you have a minute?”

Coach Hall looks up from the mess of papers on his desk with a smile, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of him with the pen that’s in his hand. 

“Sure, come on in, Will.” He waits for the freshman to sit before stating, “You did some good work out there today; your last shift in the final scrimmage had us all talking.”

Will keeps his eyebrows from flying to his hairline, but only just. “Really?” 

He felt like he was struggling to keep up during this morning’s practice--ice time was hard to come by over the summer so he’s more than a little rusty--and, frankly, he’s still trying to get passed the shock of being recruited to Samwell University in the first place. Hearing his new coach lay on the praise like that is so surprising that it almost makes him forget why he came to his office. 

Coach’s smile softens and he insists, “Really.” He shuffles some of the papers around before folding his hands on the desk and leaning forward. “So, what can I do for you?”

Right. Will clears his throat and presses his palms against his thighs.

“Um, well, the due date for this season’s fees is coming up, and I, ah, I think I’m going to have some trouble meeting that deadline?” He phrases it like a question, unsure of how the admission will be taken, and fully prepared to be met with disappointment. He knew the financial commitment going into the semester; he knows he should’ve planned for this, and that’s what he expects to hear from coach.

The thing is, he did plan for this. He worked his ass off all summer; repairing boats with his Uncle Nolan, stacking shelves at the hardware store for his family friend, Mr. Riley, and spending every spare minute working out, desperately trying to put on weight to prepare for his first season as a Division I NCAA athlete. 

Not that he thought he had any chance of playing serious minutes this year, not when the top lines are full of players like Jack fucking Zimmermann, but he wanted to be prepared anyway and prove he’s willing to put in the work. So, he was ready.

And then the heating and cooling system in the house broke and his Uncle John went on a rampage about how ‘this wouldn’t happen if it wasn’t for Will’s mother and her useless fucking kids freeloading all this time’, and there went most of his savings. Of course, if Will was able to fix the damn thing himself, he could’ve saved thousands of dollars and John would’ve never had to know about the repair--

“I’m glad you spoke up, Will.” Coach Hall startles him out of his spiral and the easy smile on his face settles his nerves. “You’re not the first player to need financial help--athletic scholarships are great but the limits that the NCAA puts on them don’t do us any favors, here--hockey is an expensive sport. That being said, team dues are more of a captain responsibility than a coach responsibility, so you’re better off bringing this up with Jack.”

Whine to his new captain about being poor? Right, okay. 

“Oh, um, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to, like, bother him or anything…”

“Don’t worry, son, you won’t be a bother; it’s part of the Captain gig. Just let him know you’ll need more time to get the money in, he’ll understand.”

“Right, more time,” Will swallows roughly. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go see if he’s still around.”

Coach nods. “Keep up the good work, twenty-four.”

“Thanks, coach.” 

He leaves the office, dropping the tense smile the second he’s out the door, and his mind whirrs. 

_ Okay, I have a two-hour block between STAT and College Writing, I can pick up an extra shift at the dining hall on Tuesdays and Thursdays if I run to class afterwards. And then there’s Wednesday afternoon; I probably don’t need all that time to do homework and study, I can work a couple of hours then, too. So, that would be seven hours at least; at twelve dollars an hour that’s eighty-four extra per week before tax. Dues are five-hundred per semester and I have the seventy-eight dollars in my savings account so I can have the money in-- _

Will stops in his tracks, turns to slam his back against the wall of the hallway he was stalking down, and presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids. “Fuck.”

Even if he works himself to the brink of a mental breakdown, it won’t be enough, not while he’s still paying off the medical bills from his broken ankle last summer, and contributing to his sisters’ braces, and, of course, the nine-hundred he gives his Uncle for rent that the fucker definitely just drinks away; not to mention the cost of being a student when his scholarship barely covers tuition.

He drops his hands and tilts his head back until it thunks against the wall. The whispered, “fuck” is wetter this time.

His captain picks that moment to come down the hall towards the docks, and Will only has a second to school his face into something a little less full of despair before he’s spotted. He must not have done a very good job, because Jack does a double-take; nodding at him briefly before freezing and turning the full force of his Captain Stare on Will. 

He gulps. “Hey, cap.”

“Poindexter,” Jack frowns. “Everything alright?” 

Digging his nails into his palms, Will manages to answer, evenly, “Um, actually, I have to talk to you about something.”

Jack’s frown deepens. “Okay…”

“So, um, I just talked to coach about, uh, team dues?”

Understanding dawns on his captain's face and he nods, prompting him to go on. 

“Look, I know it’s part of my responsibility as a player and I’m going to pick up some extra shifts at work so I can get the money as soon as possible, but I still haven’t ordered my books for the semester, and I just paid for my uniform, and--”

“Dex.” Jack’s voice is stern, but his eyes are kind. “It’s okay.” He startles Will by putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. From what he’s seen of his captain so far, the man isn’t exactly a hugger.

Interrupting whatever he was about to say, Will goes on, nervousness spilling out in his words. “If I can find PDFs for most of my books and move some bills around I can have the money--”

“Poindexter.” Jack’s voice is urgent when he repeats, “It’s _ okay. _We have a procedure for this sort of thing; it’s why we bother with fundraising--not that Bitty needs an excuse for a bake sale--” his lips twitch into something resembling a smile, “but the team has funds to cover player hardships. You’ll have to submit a form to the Samwell Student Athlete Board, but that’s just a formality. If you don’t have the money, it’s okay.”

“I--” Will blinks, startled. “What?”

Jack drops his hand and frowns again. “Did you think we’d kick you off the team if you couldn’t come up with five-hundred dollars every semester?”

Yes. “No, but I don’t want the guys to think I’m, like, freeloading, or whatever.”

He's had enough of listening to teammates accuse him of weaseling his way onto hockey teams through pity and 'no kid left behind programs'; being the scholarship kid on every team since pee wee means that he's always had a target on his back. Even when he became captain of his high school team Junior year, he'd still hear whispers about his second-rate gear and underclassmen would blatantly challenge his leadership because, apparently, you have to be rich to be good at hockey. 

He wanted college to be different. He all but abandoned his friends this summer to _make sure _it would be different, but because "Will is a man, now" and "doesn't have daddy's money to lean on", he had to throw all of that hard-earned money into thermostat repairs or risk his little sisters freezing through the winter. 

He's tired of relying on other people for money. He's tired of being the scholarship kid. It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

“Dex.” Jack's voice is quiet, laced with some of that disappointment that Will was waiting for. “You are on this team because of your ability on the ice and you deserve to be here regardless of your financial situation. We’re not going to think less of you if you need help.” He shrugs, dropping some of the intensity in his expression. “Hockey is an expensive sport.”

Will hopes his gratitude is clear on his face because he's struggling to find words that can explain how effectively Jack just said exactly what he needed to hear. 

His shoulders relax for the first time all day. “Thanks, cap, I can’t tell you how relieved I am--”

"Yo, Dexter! We're gonna be late!"

Will flinches at the sound of Nursey's voice, tensing all over again. He forgot that he agreed to grab breakfast with Derek and the rest of the frogs after practice, and now his brain is scrambling to come up with an excuse to explain why he can't go that doesn't give away his financial situation or make him sound like an antisocial freak. 

"Go ahead without me, man," he calls to the other freshman, "I'll catch up with you later."

He pauses, no longer heading down the hall in their direction and asks, "You sure? I don't mind waiting around."

Shit, why does he have to be so nice about it? "Nah, it's fine. Might be a while."

Nursey frowns, concerned. "You good?"

"Yeah, yeah, just have to talk to the coaches about something."

Will watches the other boy's face close off, but he shrugs casually and says, "Alright, later."

He doesn't realize how awkward it is that he stares after Nursey until he turns back to meet Jack's disgruntled expression. He says nothing for a moment, tilting his head down the hall toward the coaches' offices, and they walk side by side in silence. 

"How's the chemistry between you two?" He finally asks.

For a split second, hockey falls away, and Will thinks Jack is asking about his glaringly obvious, terrifyingly new, and agonizingly fragile infatuation with Derek Nurse, and he freezes. 

Then Jack elaborates, "You seemed to be connecting well in practice today," and Will's brain reboots.

"Oh, uh, yeah, so far so good. He's a great player." Right, hockey. They're talking about hockey. "I think we're a pretty good match." In terms of _hockey. _

They're only three weeks into practices, but he and Nursey are shaping up to be a solid defensive pair. They have a similar style of play, they work well together on the blue line, and they’re at the same skill level. It's been a while since he's clicked with someone so fast on the ice, and the immediate connection is thrilling.

Outside of being hockey players, however, the two couldn’t be more different.

Will knows Nursey is loaded because he flaunts it every goddamn day--bemoaning the loss of one of his airpods while ordering a new pair, wearing name brand jeans that cost more than his whole wardrobe, covered in intricate tattoos that were definitely more expensive than Will could ever imagine--and he’s not _ jealous_, okay?

Except for all of the ways he is. 

He can’t let himself think about what his life could be if he had that kind of money because if he did, he’d never recover from the downward spiral that would send him into. He tries to keep the jealousy at bay, ignoring Nursey's ostentatious displays of wealth, chirping him about private school when he can't stand it anymore, and being careful to never disclose just how different his own upbringing was. 

No one likes a sob story. 

It wouldn't be so terrible if he and Nursey just saw each other in hockey related contexts, but, because the universe has it out for him, Will lives in Nursey's building, they have a psychology course together, and the rest of their classes are at similar times so they're always running into each other in the dining halls. It's been a few weeks now, but something in his stomach feels strange whenever Nursey bumps their shoulders together on their way to class, or shouts across the dining hall, beckoning Will to sit next to him.

He fights with Nursey more than he's fought with anyone he's ever known, but he can't help but feel drawn to him. 

They’re completely different people with completely different backgrounds and Will expected to learn more about himself when he went to college but he didn't expect to learn that he's attracted to one of his teammates because that's--there's no way. It can't happen. 

* * *

“Wheel, wheel, wheel!” 

Dex heeds his partner’s advice and leans hard into his outside edge, throwing a hand out to block Holster’s stick while maneuvering the puck on his own with the other, gliding around the back of the net and making a one-handed pass to Nursey at the top of the circle. He one-times it at the net, but it goes wide. 

Coach blows his whistle. “‘Atta way, Dexy! Nurse, follow through with those shoulders.”

“Sorry, coach. Wasn’t prepared for a one-handed pass right to my tape.” He grins around the mouth guard between his teeth. “Nice play, Poindexter.”

He accepts fist bumps from Nurse and Holster, biting back a grin of his own. 

The sacrifices that he makes day in and day out just to be able to play hockey are all worth it during moments like this. The daily ice time, regimented off-ice conditioning, and access to as much food as he could want every day have Dex _ flourishing _. 

He’s never felt more secure in his abilities as a player, making plays that he'd only ever been able to dream about, improving faster than he thought possible. The coaches and upperclassmen keep laying on the praise--evenly split between him and Nursey-- and with the start of the regular season just two weeks away, he’s starting to believe he’ll actually play. He probably can’t afford tickets to get his mom and his sisters down for the home opener, but he’s already excited to tell them all about it, their nightly phone calls and weekly facetime sessions are things that help him get through long days of classes and hockey practice.

He’s glad to be out of Maine, but, shit, sometimes he really misses his mom.

Thoughts of family aside, Dex heads to the bench for a water break, waiting on Coach Murray to set up cones for their next drill. 

“Sick pass, Dex,” Ransom says with a gentle punch to the shoulder.

“Thanks, man.”

“Gunning for my job, eh?”

He barks out a laugh. “That’s hilarious. As if.” 

“Seriously dude, a little more meat on those bones and you’d be ready for those kinds of minutes.”

“Physically, maybe,” he allows.

But he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle the pressure of being a first-line player; not yet, anyway. Only one month into the semester, he’s still trying to get used to the workload of being a student athlete and frankly he still sometimes feels like he’s drowning. He does not need to add the pressure of being a top line defenseman to the mess that he is. 

Ransom taps his water bottle against Dex’s helmet. “Yeah, yeah, hockey’s a mental game and all that; but you’ll get there.”

Dex grins and taps his stick against Ransom’s shin. “I’ve got some good role models.”

“D, you’re up, let’s go!” 

Coach Hall’s booming voice gets their attention from across the ice and they jump back into action.

There are only fifteen minutes of practice left when his world comes to a screeching halt. 

The drill is simple enough; they have to figure eight around a few cones, transitioning between forward and backward crossovers halfway through, before receiving a puck and making a break for the offensive zone to practice shooting under pressure. He’s successfully completed the exercise twice and is gearing up for his final go. 

At coach’s whistle, he powers forward, skates moving quickly to generate speed, digging deep into his edges around the turns, transferring his weight to throw himself backward, and smoothly accepting the pass. As soon as he hits center ice, Wicks is on him, forcing him toward the right wall, blocking a clear shot. Dex uses the momentum to his advantage, gaining speed, knowing he’s more agile than the sophomore. Before they reach the boards, Dex prepares to slam on the breaks, adjusting his grip on his stick so he can turn back toward the net and shoot on his backhand, but instead of sending up a spray of ice, his skates slide out from underneath him and he hits the ice hard, his left wrist crushed under his chest.

“Fuck!” he shouts before he even registers the pain. He tries to roll up to one knee, but his skate slips again, and he looks down to find both blade holders snapped in half. “Shit, shit, shit.” He’s not going to panic right now; he can’t.

Several bodies skid to a stop in front of him, and he looks up at Coach Murray’s tense face. 

“Are you hurt?”

“Fuck, maybe my wrist?” He flexes it experimentally and winces. “Don’t think it’s broken, though.”

“What happened?” Jack demands. 

“My skates snapped.”

“You lost the steel?” Holster looks impressed.

“No, ah, my blades aren’t interchangeable,” he explains through gritted teeth, fully aware that he’s the only one on the team who doesn’t have skates with that modern feature. “The blade holders broke.”

Coach Hall kneels to examine his skates. 

“Both of them broke just now?” Jack asks for clarification with disbelief in his voice.

“Yeah.”

“And they were showing no signs of wear before today’s practice?”

He cringes; Jack definitely has his number. 

“Poindexter.” Coach interrupts before Dex can answer his captain. He has one hand on his left boot, thumb digging into the large hole in the tendon guard, and his voice is steely. “How old are these skates?”

By now, the whole team has gathered around, faces a mix of concern and confusion, and he really _ really _doesn’t want to answer that question, but Coach Hall isn’t exactly giving him a choice.

When he hesitates too long, Coach grits his teeth and demands, “How. Old.”

Dex swallows roughly and his voice is quietly ashamed. “Um, probably about fifteen years?” It’s a lie; he knows they’re much older than that, but he can’t do this in front of the guys. He won’t. 

“You’ve been playing hockey at a high level--at a D1 level--in fifteen year-old skates?”

He ducks his head. “Yes.”

Coach Hall closes his eyes for a brief moment before getting back to his feet. “Boys, help him off the ice, then start cool down set number six. Will, come find me when you’re done getting checked out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the athletic trainers have determined that his wrist is just badly sprained, he does the only thing he can think of. 

He calls his mom.

“Will? Honey, shouldn’t you be in practice?”

Hearing her voice takes some of the tension out of his shoulders, but a lump starts to form in his throat and he has to swallow hard before starting, “Mom, I messed up.”

She’s worried immediately, and Will regrets his poor choice of wording. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, I—I mean yes, kind of, it’s nothing serious, but Mom—“

“How serious is nothing serious, William?”

“It’s just a sprained wrist, I’ll be fine in a few weeks, but Mom—“

“Oh, baby,” she frets, “I’m so sorry, I know how much you were looking forward to the start of the season.”

“Yeah, it’s—“ he swallows again. “It really sucks, but Mom, I—my skates broke.”

There’s a beat of silence before she gasps, “They what?”

“They broke, mom I’m so sorry. The holders snapped when I was turning and that’s why I fell. They’re just, they’re so old and I’ve been skating so hard, I _ knew _this was going to happen sooner or later I should’ve tried harder to save up for new skates, I’m pretty sure Tyler S would’ve sold me his old ones at a discount but I didn’t even try and now the skates are broken and they don’t make replacement parts for them and even if they did they wouldn’t be worth fixing and I—“

“Will, honey, you’ve got to breathe, okay?” His mom is saying urgently, and Will realizes that he’s gasping for air, almost bent over double on the trainers’ table, his left hand clenched so tightly that the sprain is screaming at him. 

“But I broke them, Mom, I broke—“

“Baby, shh, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

He tries, but his voice is still cracked when he whispers, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not mad, I’m just so glad your wrist is only sprained; gosh, that could’ve been so dangerous, what if you hit the boards--” She cuts herself off with a sharp breath. “They’re just skates, Billy.”

“Mom,” his voice breaks, “you know that’s not true.”

“I know, baby, I know,” she whispers before starting again, “But Will, those skates are older than you are; actually, I think they’re even older than your brother. Of course they were going to break soon. I’m just, I’m so sorry I couldn’t get you new ones before that happened.”

He sighs. “Don’t, please, it’s not your fault, okay? Hockey is my responsibility.”

“And your safety is _ my _responsibility, William. What kind of mother lets her son play in equipment that is so old it’s dangerous?”

His chest tightens all over again and he pleads, “Can we not do this right now? Please?”

She lets out a long breath. “Of course, honey, I’m sorry. I just hate that you’re hurt.”

“I’ll be okay, it’s just a few weeks of rest.” He doesn’t really believe that, but he needs his mother to. 

“And then what? What are we going to do about your skates?”

He winces. “I’ll figure it out, please don’t worry.”

“Worrying about you is my job, baby.”

He smiles. “I know.” Movement out of the corner of his eye gets his attention, and he looks up to see Coach Hall standing in the doorway. He manages to not flinch, but barely. “I have to go talk to my coaches now, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Alright, good luck, honey. Call me if you need me. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” he says as quietly as he can, his coach’s gaze heavy on his shoulders. 

He hangs up the phone and meets the man’s eyes.

“What’s the verdict, son?”

He holds up his bandaged wrist. “Just a sprain, we’ll have a better idea of how long I’ll be out once the swelling goes down, but they gave me the okay to skate.”

He gets a sharp nod in response and Coach beckons him forward. “Let’s have a chat.”

Dex’s heart starts racing, but he hops off the table and follows him down the hallway, feeling like he’s walking to his execution. 

His leg bounces nervously as he sits in front of his coaches, both of whom spend a long moment regarding him cooly before Coach Murray speaks up.

“You understand why we’re angry, correct?”

He nods, not trusting his voice. 

“What I want to know is why the hell you tried to hide the state of your skates from us.” Coach Hall sounds quietly disappointed which is almost worse than being screamed at. 

“I, uh, I didn’t think they were that bad,” he mumbles, not able to meet his eyes. 

“Didn’t think they were that bad?” Coach repeats, and _ now _he’s yelling. “Will, there were holes all over those boots, the liner was worn down to nothing, and the leather was so weak I could bend it in half! There was absolutely no protection left in those; one slash to the foot and you’d be looking at broken bones.”

Dex stays quiet, nothing he can say will make this better. 

“It was only a matter of time before those holders snapped; do you realize how lucky you are that you didn’t get seriously hurt? And what if you had taken out another teammate when your skates failed? What then?”

“Dammit, Poindexter,” Coach Murray growls, “We talked about this! No one here cares if you don’t have the money for brand new gear! If you need something that you can’t afford, you have to ask!”

“But, instead,” Coach Hall takes over again, “you hid the problem from us. How many hours have we spent on skating drills, thinking you just needed more practice, when in reality, your skates were pieces of shit that were slowing you down? How many of those hours could we have spent on things you’re already great at; how many hours did we waste, Poindexter? What if we had the chance to improve your killer slap-shot; we could’ve used a weapon like that this season!”

“I don’t understand why you would risk using these skates, I really don’t.” Coach Murray shakes his head. “This injury was completely avoidable, you do understand that, right?”

Finally, Dex looks up, and nods slowly. 

Coach Hall slams his fist against his desk and Dex flinches, prepared for the anger, but not at all prepared for the concern in the man's eyes when he looks down at him.

"I want to help you, Poindexter, I really do. You're important to this team and the organization is proud to have you; but, son, I can't fix what I don't know about." His gaze drills right into Will's carefully crafted armor when he pleads, "You've got to talk to us."

He has to clear his throat before he manages to choke out, “I know, I’m sorry.”

“This will not happen again.” 

It’s not a question, but Dex answers anyway. 

“No, it won’t.”

Coach Murray sighs. “Go get some rest; we’ll figure out a workout routine for you tomorrow morning.”

Coach Hall nods. “You’re dismissed.”

Dex leaves the office without another word, curling his right hand into a fist to stop it from shaking, trying to breathe through the shame he can feel burning his face before walking into the locker room. 

The guys are on him immediately. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he brushes them off as kindly as he can manage, “it’s just a sprain, I’m still skating tomorrow.”

“Well then, we better go do a test run!”

Dex turns around to find Shitty holding up a pair of skates across the room, and he frowns. “What?”

“A little birdie told me you’re a size twelve, and lucky for your sorry ass, so am I,” he explains as he saunters across the room holding the skates by the laces, seemingly unconcerned by the way the blades are swinging dangerously close to his bare thighs. “I only skated in these for a few weeks weeks before dear old dad decided they were slowing me down but my loss is your fuckin’ gain, Dexy.”

“Holy shit.” Dex’s jaw drops open when Shitty puts the skates in his hands, all shiny leather and soft padding. He'd recognize these skates anywhere; these are the boots he's envied for years. “Are these the 2x’s?”

“Ch’yeah,” Shitty’s smile is way too casual for the way that Dex suddenly forgot how to breathe, holding the skates carefully, all too aware of how much money he’s handling. 

“Shits,” he shakes his head sadly, “I can’t afford these.”

“Bro,” Shitty frowns and he sounds offended, “I’m not fuckin’ _ selling _ you these skates, I’m _ gifting _them to you.”

“What? Are you nuts? I can’t accept that.”

“It’s rich old white people money, of course you can accept.”

“Shitty—“

“What exactly is your backup plan here, Poindexter?” Jack wonders from across the room. “You don’t have any other skates, do you?”

“No, but I can—“

“Can you?” He challenges with a raised brow.

“Just take the fuckin’ skates, Dex, Jesus,” Nurse says, incredulous, and several guys murmur their assent. At this point, he’d be causing more of a scene if he continued to refuse the gift. 

“Yeah, I uh, okay, thanks, Shitty.”

“Got your back, bro. C’mon, let’s go take these new wheels for a test drive,” he says with a grin, slapping Dex on the back and ushering him toward his locker. “Now these aren’t just a step up from what you’ve been playing in, they’re in a league of their fucking own.”

“Ch’yeah,” Holster agrees, “they’ll really make those old ones look like trash.”

“No worries,” Shitty holds up his hands. “They are now _ in _the trash where they belong.”

Dex whips his head up from where he’s bent over unlacing the Bauer’s and stares Shitty down hard. “They’re what?”

“They were shredded to hell, Dex. We tossed them.”

“Where?”

Shitty blinks at him and frowns. “What?” 

“Where are they, Shitty? Where are my fucking skates?”

“In the garbage in the equipment room, dude, what the—“

Dex scrambles to his feet and makes a beeline for the door, locating the garbage can in the corner of the room and peering into it. His blood boils.

“Who the _ fuck _put their underwear in here?” He yells as he digs his skates out of a disgusting pile. Upon closer inspection, his anger doubles.

“Did someone _ spit _ on these?” He demands, walking back into the locker room and searching the faces of his teammates. “What the _ fuck _? I get that money means nothing to all of you, but is this how you treat your gear?”

“Dude, chill--” Nursey starts, but Dex whirls on him before he can finish, so far passed 'chill', he can hardly stand it.

“Don’t tell me to fucking, chill!”

“Dex,” Bitty is quietly confused, “you can’t skate in those anymore.”

He looks down at the mess of broken plastic and shredded nylon and bites out, “I know that.”

“So...they’re trash,” Holster states what he thinks to be the truth.

Dex shakes his head, frustrated. “No, you don’t--” Then he cuts himself off because, right, they _ don’t _know.

His teammates are all regarding him carefully, staring at him as if he’s a wild animal about to attack and, frankly, he feels like one. He wants to keep yelling and storm out of here without offering an explanation because that’s what he does, but…

_ But they can’t fix what they don’t know about, _Dex repeats Coach Hall’s words in his head.

He lets out a defeated breath and confesses, quietly, “These were my dad’s skates.”

Looking up to judge the team’s reaction is disappointing. They all still look confused.

“I don’t think your dad is going to miss some busted old skates, Dex,” Ollie points out with a laugh.

“No,” he protests over the tense chuckles a few of the guys let out, “no, my dad--my dad died a few years ago, and these were his skates.”

Dex can hear his heart hammering in his chest in the now-silent locker room and he stares down at the skates with burning eyes. 

“Shit, Dex,” Holster is the first to step forward, wrapping him in an awkward hug, “I’m so sorry, man.”

“It’s okay,” he mumbles half-heartedly because he knows he’s supposed to, but he doesn’t feel okay. He hates the vulnerability of confessions like this, the pity in the eyes of his teammates. 

“No, really, you’re right, we were being insensitive as fuck,” Holster insists.

Dex shrugs out of the hug. “It’s fine; you guys didn’t know.”

He keeps his head down as he walks back across the room to his locker, carefully setting his old skates down before resuming the process of unlacing the Vapors. Conversations start up again all around him, and he takes his time putting the skates on, trying to compose himself. 

He looks up to see Shitty watching him carefully and he tries a smile. “Still up for that test drive?”

“Jack, you don’t have to be here,” Dex insists for the upteenth time before he steps out onto the ice. “Don’t you have class?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yeah, but—“

“I’m the last one on the ice,” he says like it’s a fact of life, not just some crazy principle that he’s decided to live by because he’s a half-human hockey robot.

“Whatever, man,” he sighs and glides onto the newly resurfaced rink. If not for Shitty’s arm reaching out to steady him, he would’ve fallen right on his ass.

“Holy _ shit _these boots are stiff.”

“Yeah, man, that’s how they’re supposed to feel,” Shitty laughs.

“Especially playing at this level,” Jack adds, “you need the support when you’re making tight turns and stopping on a dime.”

“They’re going to take some getting used to…” Dex trails off, nervous about how unsure he feels on the ice after a lifetime of feeling at home in his skates.

Shitty claps him hard enough on the shoulder to make him wobble. “That’s why we’re here, brah.”

Time flies as he adjusts to the new skates; the stiffer boot stops feeling restrictive and starts feeling empowering after his second drill, the way the sole molds to his foot the more he skates has him making faster and faster turns, and as he takes a few easy laps, throwing in some mowhawk turns here and there, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

He comes to a quick stop in front of the seniors where they’re leaning against the boards, spraying them both with ice, and he laughs. 

“These are fucking amazing, Shits, thank you.”

“My pleasure, brah. Glad someone is gonna use them.”

Jack tilts his head back toward the locker room. “C’mon, time to call it for today. You need to rest that wrist.”

Dex rolls his eyes. “I’m not holding a stick, cap.”

“And how badly does your wrist hurt right now?”

He winces because, okay, point.

They unlace their skates in silence, Dex taking his time cleaning off the blades, not only because doing things one-handed is more difficult than he remembers, but because he wants to take good care of the expensive equipment. Jack and Shitty have already left by the time Nursey and Chowder walk back into the locker room, the latter holding something behind his back with a sly smile.

“We have a surprise for you,” he sing-songs.

Dex raises an eyebrow.

“Ta da!” He brings his hands to his front to reveal Dex’s old skates. “We cleaned them up for you, and we taped the holders together the best we could. There was nothing we could do about the holes, and obviously they’re still not usable, but they polished up pretty nicely for older skates.”

Dex hardly hears the details, too busy staring at the boots that have new life breathed into them, looking far too much like the condition they were in on the day that his dad gifted them. He takes them from Chowder, carefully placing them on the bench behind him before pulling his teammate into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he breathes into his shoulder, squeezing tight before pulling back, lest he do something ridiculous like start crying. 

“It was Nursey’s idea,” Chowder offers, nudging the defenseman with his elbow.

Nurse ducks his head and shrugs. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Nursey,” Dex has to clear his throat when it comes out more choked off than he planned, "_t__hank _you. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

Nursey reaches out to squeeze his good arm. “I’m sorry about your dad, Dex.”

And just like that, his eyes are stinging again; the sincerity in Nursey’s voice breaking right through the walls he’s built around himself, and he’s horrified to realize his lip is trembling. 

“Shit, dude, c’mere.” Nursey pulls him in, and Dex melts against him, letting the sadness and grief wash over him in a way he so rarely does.

_ They don’t do this _ is the thought that keeps breaking through as Nursey rubs a hand up and down his back. They’ve been working hard on getting along, not just for the sake of the team, but Dex actually _ likes _ Nursey. He’s cool in a way that he could never be, he’s kind and caring and attentive to his friends, and he’s a damn good hockey player. They bicker and they chirp and they often piss each other off for real, but they don’t _ comfort. _They don’t hold each other or talk about their feelings.

_ But maybe _ , Dex thinks as feelings of safety and warmth flood his brain, _ maybe they can _.

“C’mon,” Chowder grabs his arm when they finally let each other go, “Come get breakfast with us.”

“Yes,” Nursey agrees loudly, turning to grab his bag, “I’m _ starving _.”

“Hungry for some rabbit food, Nurse?” Dex chirps, grateful for the way neither of the guys point out how wet it sounds.

“Dex, _ don’t _,” Chowder groans, “I’ve already been the catalyst for two vegan rants today, I don’t need to hear another.”

“You wound me, C,” Nurse puts a head over his heart. “But...not as much as you wound the animals.”

Dex wraps his good arm around Nursey’s shoulders and starts to drag him out of the locker room. “As the actual wounded one here, I’m banning further discussion on this topic until _ after _we eat.”

“You mean until after you contribute to the--”

Chowder slaps a hand over Nursey’s mouth and the three of them stumble out of Faber in a mess of laughter and for the first time in a long time, Dex feels like maybe he can do this. Maybe he can be open with the people around him and everything will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter one edited and combined with chapter two on 11/3/19
> 
> Thank you for commenting on the first chapter, feedback makes my day and I always take the time to reply to every single comment. So excited that so many of you are excited for where this fic is going; I am also excited!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: pretty graphic description of a panic attack in the last part of this chapter. read safely, friends.

“Dex, quick! Blueberry or pecan?”

“Blueberry,” he answers automatically around the pen between his teeth, not taking his eyes off the laptop screen in front of him while rapidly typing out lines of code. 

It’s easy for him to focus on his homework here, surrounded by the smell of cinnamon, the sounds of his teammates coming and going, the sight of Bitty fluttering from cabinet to drawer to countertop, humming to himself so badly out of tune that it’s charming. It’s homely in a way he never thought a college frat house would be. But, then, the hockey team has turned out to be the opposite of what Will expected in most ways. 

Bitty makes a noise of outraged protest. “But blueberry isn’t a traditional thanksgiving flavor!”

“Why did you ask for my opinion when you were just going to ignore it?” He rolls his eyes fondly. 

“Well, because you don’t know a thing about baking and therefore, your opinion is the exact opposite of what I should do.”

Instead of laughing like Bitty probably expects, Dex takes the pen out of his mouth and taps it nervously against the kitchen table. “Actually, I, uh, I used to bake a lot? My mom and I used to make cakes and bread and stuff after, you know, after my dad.”

Bitty turns around to face him, wiping his hands with a towel, and his voice is cautiously curious. “Used to?”

“Yeah, well, then we moved in with my Uncle John and he doesn’t exactly approve of the ‘girly’ activity.”

Something in Bitty’s expression closes off and he nods slowly. “Ahh, I see.”

“Yeah. So, uh, I don’t know, I think blueberry could be a good addition to Hausgiving; it’d be nice to have something lighter after all the food we’ll be eating.” 

Bitty’s smile is warm. “Yeah, Will, I think you might be right.” He starts to turn back toward his work but pauses, tilting his head at the freshman before asking, carefully, “Would you...you wouldn’t want to help me with this, would you?”

The “no, thanks” is on the tip of his tongue; a response so ingrained in him when faced with anything that might get his ass kicked back home, but this is _ Bitty. _ It’s Bitty, covered in flour, smile gentle but hesitant, like he’s waiting for judgement from _ Will, _and that’s not going to fly so he saves his work, closes his laptop, and returns the sophomore’s smile.

“Yeah, actually, I’d love to.”

By the time the first pie is in the oven, Will’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much and he is just as much of a mess as his teammate. 

“How did you get sugar in your _ ear, _Bits? Oh my god.” 

“Oh, don’t look at _ me, _ Mr. Poindexter; _ you’re _the one who turned the mixer on high!”

Will cackles, feeling lighter than he has since he was able to do this with his mom. “Not my fault that machine is more high-tech than my laptop! How was I supposed to know what that button did?”

Bitty wipes tears from his cheeks, smearing blueberry puree in the process, and Will dissolves into another round of laughter. He’s still trying to compose himself when Chowder walks into the kitchen, grocery bags in hand. 

“Woah, you look _ rough, _dude,” Will greets, taking in his tousled hair and rumpled clothing. 

He ignores the comment, unceremoniously dumping the bags onto the kitchen table and turning the full force of his exasperated glare on Bitty. 

“Bits, you know I’d die for you, but _ please, _ for the love of San Jose, do _ not _send me to Murder Stop-and-Shop the day before Thanksgiving ever again.” 

When Will laughs, Chowder whirls on him. “I had to elbow an old lady out of the way for the last of the butter, Dex. An old lady! I think she bruised my ribs!”

“Yo, C, chill,” Nursey drawls, walking into the kitchen with the rest of the plastic bags balanced in one hand. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re hardly a fair judge of chaotic spaces, Nurse,” Will rolls his eyes, “you live in New York City.”

Nursey makes a face. “Just call it The City, dude.”

“Uh, no, The City is Boston.”

“Says you, New Englander.”

“In today’s news, Derek Nurse discovers that the world doesn’t revolve around him.”

“And in other news, William Poindexter holds on to the misguided belief that he’s funny.”

Chowder steps into Will’s space and puts a hand on his arm, face mock-serious. “I think you’re funny, Will.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite,” he replies, throwing an arm around his shoulders. 

Bitty hips checks him so he can take his place at Chowder’s side. “He’s everyone’s favorite, Will, get in line.”

He’s about to praise Bitty’s strong off-ice check—a real improvement from the start of the season— when the timer on the oven beeps, and Bitty shouts, startled. “The pie!”

Chowder bounces on his toes and eagerly asks, “There’s already pie?”

“You bet there is,” Bitty replies, carefully removing it from the oven and placing it on a cooling rack, “Will and I made this one for tomorrow.”

“‘Swasome, dude,” Chowder punches his arm, “I didn’t know you baked!”

Will shrugs, blushing. “A little.”

“He’s being modest,” Bitty insists, “he’s actually pretty good.”

Will’s phone vibrates and he smiles when he sees who the facetime request is coming from. “My mom would love to hear you say that, Bits,” he holds up his phone. “You want to say hi?”

“Oh my lord, _ yes _!” 

Will sits on the table and Bitty presses so close he’s almost in his lap, Nursey and Chowder falling in line behind them. He’s laughing at Nursey’s quip about “looking like a family portrait” when he answers the call.

“Hey, mom,” he can’t help the way his voice has gone soft and he knows the guys are going to chirp him to hell for being a momma’s boy but, well, they wouldn’t be wrong. 

“Hi, baby,” she squints at the screen before asking, “where are you?”

“I’m at the hockey house; a couple of us are here getting ready for tomorrow.” He tilts the screen to introduce everyone. “This is Eric, Chris, and Derek. Guys, this is my mother, Grace.”

“Hi momma Poindexter!” Chowder crows, waving enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you!”

“So nice to finally meet you all, I’ve heard so much.”

“Good things, I hope,” Nurse teases. 

“The best,” his mom agrees. “You boys are having such a great season this year, I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to come down to a game and meet you all properly.”

“Mom,” Will chides quietly, but Bitty is already talking.

“Well, we got an unexpectedly talented group of freshmen this year so that definitely helps.” He nudges Will’s arm and continues, “Speaking of talented, Will here just helped me bake the first of many pies for tomorrow. You’ve raised quite the baker.”

Her smile turns sad, and Will feels his own throat constrict in response. “He really is the jack of all trades, that boy; takes after his father.” There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence before Bitty, wonderful, sweet Bitty, gets her talking about baking. They’re deep into a discussion about thickening agents when a familiar voice comes through the phone and Will freezes. 

“Gracie Mae, who are you blabbering with over there?”

She turns to look over her shoulder, expression guarded, and says, “Hush, John. I’m just talking to Billy and some of his teammates.”

“Hey, Billy!” God, he’s so loud he must be drunk already. It’s only six p.m. “How’s things?”

“Hi, Uncle John,” he says carefully. “Things are good. Hockey’s going real well.”

“Yeah? That’s surprising, all things considered. Hope your staying away from all those queers," he guffaws, throwing the word out like it's a disease. "I heard it’s catching.”

Will’s heart starts racing and he can see his hand is shaking where he’s holding the phone in front of the group. Nursey must notice too, because he puts his hand on his shoulder and while he appreciates the gesture, Will can’t help but flinch away, hating himself for feeling relieved when he drops the hand. He can’t risk that kind of contact with another boy in front of his uncle. He knows what the team’s easy physical contact would look like to a man like John. 

“Hey, sorry, we, uh, have to go, you know, hockey stuff,” Chowder says awkwardly when it becomes clear that Will is not going to respond. “It was nice meeting you guys!” He takes the phone out of his hand and hangs up the call without waiting for a response. 

“Fuck.” Will lets out a long breath and drops his head. “I’m so sorry about him.”

“Hey,” Nursey nudges him, “shitty family members are totally not your fault, dude.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have to expose you all to his bullshit. I should've warned you." He shakes his head sadly. "He’s not that bad when he’s sober, but, uh, he’s rarely sober.” 

This time when Nursey and Chowder both put their hands on his shoulders, he doesn’t shrug them off.

“Bits?” Chowder’s voice is careful, and Will becomes aware of how hard the sophomore is shaking. “You okay?”

“Of course, sugar! Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies, all fake cheer and forced smiles, “I just remembered I have an assignment I need to submit; back in a flash!”

His hasty exit leaves a hole in the kitchen, a sudden emptiness that sits heavily on Will’s chest. “Should I go after him?”

“Nah, man,” Nursey squeezes his shoulder, “give him some space, he’ll be alright.”

Chowder jerks his chin toward the mess scattered all over and suggests, “Guess we should clean this up, huh?”

The boys get to work in a methodical silence, never stepping very far from each other, fingers brushing backs as they move around the space, hips nudging as they squeeze in front of the sink, taking turns washing and drying. 

Later, when the kitchen is clean and ready to be destroyed again, they settle around the table, not talking, staring at their phones, and while no one says it, they’re all waiting for Bitty to come back down. When an hour has passed and he still hasn’t shown, Chowder moves first, silently prompting Will and Nursey to follow in gathering up their things and slowly making their way back to the freshman dorms. Will parts first with a half-hearted “night” and barely finds the energy to take off his shoes before he collapses onto his bed, jaw clenched and stomach churning. He stares at the wall, heart hammering in his chest, and thinks about how Bitty is probably alone in his room doing the same. 

* * *

“Thoughts? Concerns? Reactions? What did you all think?”

Will’s _ Race, Class, and Gender _ professor, Brenda, is standing in front of the classroom, squinting at the lights that have just been turned back on, waiting expectantly for responses, but he needs a minute to collect himself. 

He just got his world rocked by a Netflix documentary.

“I _ loved _that,” a girl from the front row gushes, “like, I feel like it’s really easy for me to put men into boxes, or, like, to write them off as assholes or whatever...but I never really stopped to think about how much guys are a product of the male role models around them, and how much those roles are altered by race or class. Not that it absolves them of responsibility for their behaviors but like, this documentary showed me that maybe I need to have a little more empathy.”

Several students nod their heads in agreement, and Brenda smiles.

“Thanks for sharing, Cassidy. Anyone else?”

Josh from his Statistical Computation class raises his hand.

“I think we’re pretty lucky here. You know, the world loves to joke about Samwell being crazy liberal and whatever, but I really think the culture here is so unlike how most of us grew up--I mean I guess I can’t speak for everyone--but we’re, like, given all this room to just..._ be _, you know? I feel like we’re so removed from toxic masculinity--not that it doesn’t exist--but, I don’t know where I’m going with this. I just have a lot of feelings about this school.”

The room laughs, but the sound is supportive and kind, and Will’s chest feels warm. 

“Even on sports teams,” Ryan starts, “which are notoriously toxic and full of ‘macho men’, I feel like here the guys are all so comfortable with each other--I mean, I’m not on a team so maybe I’m making this up but just from what I’ve seen around campus...I don’t know, it’s refreshing to see guys interact without putting up a front all the time. Makes me feel like well if these elite athletes can hug their friends then I can too.”

“That’s a good point, Ryan,” Brenda nods, “We seem to, as a society, unconsciously look to athletes and celebrities and other public figures for guidance on how to behave and how lucky are we, like Josh said, to be at a school where our best athletes are good role models.”

Several students are looking at Will now, and he ducks his head, cheeks burning. It’s a small class--only twenty-two students--so everyone knows each other, and everyone knows he’s on the hockey team. He wants to contribute, but he’s never been good with words, and he’s so terrified of messing this up. But, then, this is Samwell. He clears his throat.

“Yeah, ah, I agree with what you’re all saying and what Ryan said about Samwell athletics is definitely true--at least, for the hockey team it is, not sure about the Lax team…” He gets several groans and eye-rolls for that remark. The rivalry between the two teams isn’t exactly a secret, mostly because the hockey team won’t let it be. “So, I grew up in Coastal Maine, military family, real ‘manly men’, you know?” The class is quiet now, watching him intently, but when he looks around he’s met with open expressions, small smiles, and subtle nods. These people hardly know him and they care about what he wants to say. He swallows before he continues. “I wouldn’t say my dad was _ toxic _, more like he just didn’t know any better, but the other, uh, male role models I have are definitely not the best when it comes to like, feelings and shi--uh, stuff. But the team is just so...open? And like, supportive? The upperclassmen are really big into team bonding and, like, this one guy will always take the time to explain why something you said was problematic and nothing ever feels, ah, mean? It’s all just...I don’t know, it’s like everyone on the team just wants you to be the best version of yourself that you can be? And it’s really, uh, different? But really nice, too.”

By the time he’s done, he can feel exactly how red his face is and he kind of wants the floor to swallow him but everyone is still _ smiling _and this school is so weird. 

“Thanks for sharing, Will. I’m glad you’re finding support within your team. And that brings us to a good stopping point for today. Next Tuesday we’ll pick up talking about groups outside of our families and now non-familial relations give us room to grow. Have a good weekend, everyone.”

“I talked about you in class today,” Will tells Shiity, later, lounging in the reading room with him and Lardo. 

“Yeah?” Shits takes the joint back. “Good things?”

“The best. We were talking about toxic masculinity and stuff and someone brought up sports and I just--you know this team is fucking weird, right?”  
“Ch’yeah, dude. I take pride in that.”

“Yeah, well, no one on this team does the whole ‘macho man’ act and it’s weird. But, you know, good weird.” He shuffles closer to the senior so he can rest his head on his shoulder. “I really, really love our team.”

“Knew you’d be cuddly when you’re high,” Lardo says smugly. 

“Am I high?” He blinks at her.

She pats him on the head. “As a kite, bro.”

Will frowns, confused. He didn’t take _that_ _many _hits, did he? But then, the stuff they’re smoking is probably way more pure than anything him and his friends could’ve afforded back home, so of course it’s going to work faster. He’s about to attempt to voice these thoughts when there’s a commotion from inside. 

“Are you smoking without me?” Nursey demands, crawling through the window. “What the fuck, Shits?”

He passes him the joint. “Sorry, brah, but Dex needed it more,” he explains, nodding to where Will is still resting on his shoulder.

Nursey hums in understanding. “Bad day?”

“Nah just,” he shrugs. “Weird.”

“Dexy here is unlearning toxic masculinity,” Lardo says with a fond smile.

“Yeah?” Nursey nudges him. “Does this mean you’ll stop staring at me every time I talk about poetry?”

“No,” Will answers quickly because, no, he’s not going to stop staring at Nursey, ever. “You’re pretty when you talk about things you love.”

Nursey blinks at him, startled, before a warm smile spreads over his face. Will melts because he did that; he put that smile there. 

“Thanks, Dex.”

“Shit,” Lardo laughs, “If Dex starts calling his teammates pretty after watching that documentary, maybe we should make the whole team see it.”

“No, no no,” Will sits up quickly, pausing for a moment when his head spins, “What we _ need _is to make the LAX bros watch it.”

On a long exhale of smoke, Shitty yells, “Fuuuuuuuck the LAX bros.”

“They’re a product of their environment, Shits. Don’t be mean.”

“No, Dex, _ we _are products of our environment and we turned out okay. Those guys are just assholes.”

Will frowns, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yeah but, I was an asshole, too. I’m still learning how to not be an asshole. How’s that make me different?”

“Dex,” Nursey grabs his arm, “you’re different because you _ care. _ You want to learn, you understand that you have a lot to learn, and you’re doing it every day. Those assholes across the street couldn’t care less about their white privilege, or their sexist behavior, or their classist biases; _ you care. _”

Will nods emphatically, so overwhelmed with the feeling of being understood, and maybe, just a little bit, really fucking high. “I do, Nurse, I care so much sometimes it feels like I’m drowning in it.”

Shitty pulls him back against his shoulder and passes him the joint. “And when that happens, we smoke.”

* * *

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at the text when his vision starts to blur. 

Will blinks rapidly, waiting for the screen to come back into focus, but it doesn’t and it’s only then that he starts to notice the hand that’s holding his phone is shaking.

Actually, it feels like all of him is shaking. 

The more he concentrates on just what the hell his body is doing, the more it freaks him out. His heart should _ definitely _not be beating this fast, especially not when he’s just been sitting on the couch in the Haus doing his homework, and his chest shouldn’t feel this tight when he’s not in the middle of skating suicides. 

Shit, is this what a heart attack feels like?

His phone slips from his hand but he hardly notices; too focused on desperately trying to draw a deep breath and failing. And failing. And failing. 

At some point, he drops his elbows to his knees and clasps his hands behind his head but he doesn’t remember moving. The only proof that he did is that he’s now staring at the ugly, stained rug under his feet, but that looks blurry too. 

Fuck; what if he’s going blind?

If he loses his vision then he’ll really be useless and he won’t be able to work so he can’t pay rent and John will kick them out and they’ll have to live in a shelter and his mom won’t get her medicine and the girls won’t be able to go to school and his brother will have to come home and deal with the mess Will has made of their family and, god, what would his father say, he’s probably so disappointed and--

“--Poindexter!”

The shout breaks through, but Will can’t figure out which muscles he needs to lift his head, not while his brain is trying to figure out who the hell is trying to talk to him while he’s dying. 

“Dex, can you hear me?” It’s Jack, and he’s wearing his Captain Voice, and what does he expect Will to do? Stop dying just because he Captain orders him to?

“Dex, you’re having a panic attack, I need you to slow your breathing down.”

“I--wha--” he can’t draw enough breath to respond but he wants to demand what the hell he’s talking about. Maybe he misheard him; it _does_ sound like his voice is underwater.

“It’s okay, don’t try to talk,” Jack continues steadily, “Breathe in for a count of three, then breathe out for a count of three. Can you do that, Dex?”

He shakes his head because _ no, Jack, I can’t breathe my lungs aren’t working _.

There’s no response for an indiscernible amount of time and at first, Will thinks Jack just left him here to die, but, no, his Captain would never do that to him.

“Dex, is it okay if Ransom talks to you? I think he’ll be able to help.”

Ransom? Oh, Jack is so smart. Ransom is on a pre-med track and while he’s not a doctor yet, he probably has the best chance of figuring out why Will went from feeling fine to fighting for his life in less than a minute.

He tries to nod, he really does, but he can’t tell if his head is moving or if the room is shaking. Or is it still him that’s shaking?

“Dex? Hey, man, it’s Rans. Do you know where you are?” The junior’s voice is gentle, and Will finds himself leaning towards him.

He tries to choke out an answer to his question, but his breath keeps getting caught in his throat.

“Can I touch you?” 

The question catches him off guard and he finds that he’s able to nod this time because, yes, _ please. _ He doesn’t know what’s happening and his body doesn’t feel _ real _and he really, really wants a hug.

Ransom puts his hand on his back and starts speaking quietly in his ear. “When I move my hand up, you breathe in. When I move my hand down, you breathe out. Do you understand, Dex?”

He makes an affirmative sound, or at least, he must, because Ransom moves his hand up.

He doesn’t know how long they spend like this, Will choking on his breath, Ransom all but rubbing his back through it, Jack a steady presence at his other side, but soon, Will is able to breathe on his own, lungs slowly regaining their normal function.

As soon as he’s able to, he demands, “What the _ fuck _was that?”

Jack sits next to him on the couch. “That,” he pats Will’s knee, “was a panic attack.”

He shakes his head, brain fighting to comprehend. “No, that’s--what?”

“I take it you’ve never had one before?” Ransom asks.

“No, never.”

“Pretty scary, huh?”

Will nods. “You...you’ve had one?” He asks hesitantly.

Ransom laughs quietly. “Way more than one.”

“Me too,” says Jack, and Will turns quickly to gape at him.

“Really?” 

“Anxiety manifests itself differently in everyone,” Jack explains, “Ransom and I happen to have a lot of similarities.”

“No, this--I don’t...have that,” he finishes lamely.

“Sure,” Ransom allows, “having one panic attack doesn’t mean you have an anxiety disorder, but you’re not alone in the struggle, brah.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Jack offers.

Will freezes, remembering his phone clattered to the floor and with it, the text that literally scared him to death. 

Uncle John needs to charge them more for rent now that the weather is getting colder. He planned for this, but he’s going to be even tighter on cash than he already is, and the reminder that he’ll soon be home for almost a month, forced to either deal with John or not see the rest of his family for the first time since August, sent a shiver down his spine that quickly turned into...whatever the hell that was. 

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Ransom starts rubbing his back again. 

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” Jack soothes, “we don’t have to talk.”

God, this is humiliating. “Sorry, I just--”

“It’s okay, Dex, really. Sometimes it helps me to talk about things, but I know that doesn’t work for everyone.”

They’re quiet for a moment before Ransom asks, “Hey, you want a Xanax?”

Will frowns because in what world are his problems serious enough to need medication but also because Jack has gone eerily still next to him. He turns to look at him, and finds his Captain’s face white. 

Before he can ask, Ransom curses. “Shit, Jack, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t think.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, no, it’s--you’re fine, I just. I, uh, didn’t know you had--I didn’t know there was any in the Haus.”

“Hey.” Ransom sits up, face serious. “I’ll go flush it all right now if you need me to.”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, then sighs, expression softening. “Sorry, no, I mean it, it’s fine. I just...you caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry, Jack; I shouldn’t have sprung that on you.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack’s voice doesn’t sound fine and Will is really confused.

He doesn’t expect an explanation; he’s not entitled to details about the upperclassman’s private lives, but Jack seems ready to give him one, sitting up and clearing his throat. 

“I overdosed on anxiety medication when I was younger," he explains evenly. "I--ah, I’m sure you heard about what happened before the draft?”

“That’s...Jack,” Will swallows hard. “You know the whole world thinks you were a coke addict, right?”

He laughs a clipped, bitter sound. “Yeah, Dex, I know.”

“Why don’t you tell people the truth?”

“I just told you.” 

“Ok, but I mean, like, people who matter. Important people. Why don’t you just clear the air?”

“It's not that simple.” Jack sighs. “And honestly? It’s easier to let people think I was a party boy than try to explain the nuances of an anxiety disorder. S'not like most people would believe me, anyway.”

Will blinks, processing. “Yeah, that’s...I guess the NHL isn’t really the best about accepting mental health issues.”

There’s another few moments of silence, this one heavier than the last, before Ransom asks, “How are you feeling, Dex?”

He shrugs. “Shaky, I guess. And, like, unsettled?”

“Like you’re skin doesn’t quite fit?” Jack offers.

Will nods. “Yeah, exactly. And tired.” He grimaces and adds, “Also, nauseous.”

Ransom squeezes his shoulder. “You feel like you’re going to be sick?”

“No.” 

A moment later, he bolts for the bathroom and loses his lunch. 

“So, yes,” he croaks out eventually, trying to breathe through the lingering nausea, grateful that he was able to make it to the toilet, and horribly embarrassed that the upperclassmen just witnessed him being sick.

“Is this normal?” He groans, folding his hands over his stomach and slumping against the wall. When Ransom raises an eyebrow, he adds, “I mean, normal for, uh, panic attacks?”

“Not really,” Ransom replies at the same time Jack says, “It can be.”

They give each other exasperated looks before Jack reiterates, “Anxiety is different for everyone.”

“Right.”

“What’s your schedule like for the rest of the day?” Ransom asks while Will cleans himself up. “You need to email any professors about missing class?”

“No, I’m done with class for the day.” Small miracles. “I’m probably just gonna go crash in my room.”

“Panic attacks can be exhausting,” Jack agrees, “I’d understand if you needed to miss practice tomorrow.”

Will freezes, feeling nauseous all over again. “I can still skate.”

“I know,” Jack says easily, but then he meets Will’s eyes and frowns. “No, hey, Dex. _ Of course _you can still skate. Having panic attacks or having anxiety doesn’t change anything, okay? Especially not where we’re coming from.”

“That’s--” Will clears his throat, “Right, yeah, I know. I’m just--I’ll be there.”

“Alright,” Jack claps him on the shoulder, “see you bright and early, eh?”

He manages a tight smile. “Yeah, see ya.”

Ransom lingers while he gathers up his things. “You know, if you decide you want to talk after all, about anything, you can call or text or come over whenever. I mean it, dude. You need me, I’m there.”

His smile softens. “I know. Thanks, Rans.”

When the junior reaches out to squeeze his shoulder one last time, Will has to stop himself from melting into him. He feels unsteady and weird and maybe a hug would fix that but, shit, Ransom has already done so much for him today, he’s not going to ask. 

He walks out the door. 

He doesn’t have a good answer for why he walked passed his building and went straight to Chowder’s. If someone asked, he’d say he forgot where he was going.

But, really, he didn’t want to be alone.

And, sure, there are probably people on Will’s floor right now; his nice neighbors wouldn’t mind if he hung out with them, and his roommate might even be there; he doesn’t have class until seven.

But Chowder is definitely in his room; he knows because the text that came through before--before _that_ _one_ was his teammate telling him to come over so they could work on their STAT homework together.

That’s why he’s standing outside Chowder’s door right now, he tells himself. Just for STAT homework.

But when Chris opens the door, all easy smiles and genuine happiness, like Will made his day just by being there, something in him gives, and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

“Dex? You okay?” 

He shakes his head, close to tears for the second time today and C takes over, pulling him inside, taking his bag, and ushering him onto his bed.

“I, um, I had a panic attack earlier,” he confesses once Chowder is sat next to him, pressing their shoulders together.

“Shit, Dex,” he sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you got those.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t, it’s--that was my first one.” He lets out a shuddering breath before saying, “It was really scary.”

Chowder makes a quiet noise and wraps his arms around Will’s shoulders. “I bet it was. Were you alone?”

“No, um, Jack and Ransom were there. They really helped. But. They’re--you know.”

“Intimidating upperclassmen?” Chowder supplies, and Will breathes a laugh.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you came here,” C admits softly.

Will leans into him, surrendering into the embrace, taking a deep breath for what feels like the first time in hours.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do these random jumbled moments make sense to anyone but me? Lol writing is hard, y'all. 
> 
> The documentary discussed in this chapter is “The Mask You Live In”. I watched it in one of my sociology classes freshman year and loved it, highly recommend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Coming Out Day!

Will returns from winter break feeling tense and anxious and not at all relaxed. 

He wasn’t able to get on the ice at all during the three weeks he was home; too busy repairing things around the house that his uncle has been neglecting while he was away at school, so he’s nervous that he’s lost even more muscle tone at a critical point in the season on top of what he lost when his wrist was healing. He and Nursey are still third line defensemen--as to be expected from freshmen--but they’re outperforming the sophomores on almost every shift, rapidly working their way up the ranks, and Nursey thinks they’ll finish the season on the second line. 

Will isn’t as optimistic, especially not when he can’t practice for weeks at a time. 

He probably could’ve made the time to practice, and the knowledge that he didn’t weighs heavily on him but, frankly, he didn’t want to leave the girls alone with John.

He’s not sure if being around the team for so long--their warm, casual affection and easy acceptance--made him less tolerant of John’s bullshit or if he just forgot how awful the man really is, but the idea that his mom and baby sisters live with him alone most of the year makes his skin crawl. 

Once upon a time, he might’ve said the man would never hurt them, that he wouldn’t resort to physical violence when verbal worked well enough, but Will is in college now. He knows the warning signs. He sees the way John raises his voice whenever Will’s mother challenges him, the way he belittles Amanda when she boasts about the new skill she learned on the uneven bars, and how he bullies Jessica if she comes home with a report card that’s less than perfect. He knows that these behaviors are precursors to physical abuse. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.

Every time his extended family gets together, less often these days since Will’s father passed (he really was the glue that kept all the cousins in contact), Will has to hear his aunts and uncles go on and on about how generous his Uncle John is, how lucky they are that he took them in after they could no longer afford the mortgage on the house they’d lived in for twenty years.

And, he supposes, this is partially true. They could’ve ended up in a shelter somewhere or, worse, he and his siblings could’ve been sent to group homes since they were all minors at the time. Luke would’ve gone right into the military when he turned eighteen regardless, but Will would’ve been away from his family for three years before college, and the girls would’ve been in the system for another six years. And his mother? She would’ve had to face chemo all on her own--no one there to help her walk or hold her hair back when the chemicals made her sick.

He shudders at the thought. John is awful, but at least they’re all together. 

Well, mostly together. Will stares at the letter in his hands, the familiar relief washing over him whenever he hears from his brother, and this time there’s some anticipation, too. Lucas will be home next weekend for the first time in nine months, and Will doesn’t have to think twice before sending an email off to his coaches asking for the weekend off. 

He feels a little guilty about how easily he’s willing to miss a game, but it’s only an exhibition against Arizona State; it’s not like it’ll count for anything, and even if it did: nine months is a long time.

He’s texting Amanda, planning the details of Luke’s homecoming party, when there’s a commotion outside his dorm room. 

“Yo, Poindexter!” Nursey hollers, “open up!”

He scrambles to comply before he wakes up the whole floor--3 p.m. is prime nap time around here--and opens the door to find Nursey and Chowder holding boxes of…

“Are those Valentine’s?”

‘Yup,” Nurse answers, shouldering his way into the room without waiting for permission. 

Chowder follows, giving Will a sheepish smile. “We volunteered to help the LGBTQ+ center with their inclusi-vals, but I think we might’ve underestimated the amount of work we’d be in for.”

Will sighs, closing the door with a dramatic flourish. “Sure, yes, I can absolutely drop what I’m doing to help you guys. What are friends for?”

Nursey shoves him. “Chill with the sarcasm, dude. If you’re seriously busy we can go.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he waves them over to his bed, clearing off the textbooks he wasn’t reading. “Chowder owes me deets on his date with Farms, anyway.” He grins at the way the goalie’s face turns red.

Will puts on a playlist he thinks they can all tolerate (‘my room my tunes, Nurse’) and they get to work folding cards and creating bundles of twenty, tying each set with pride-flag colored ribbon. Chowder recounts the events of his dinner date with Caitlin in excruciating detail until Will almost regrets asking, confident that he’ll have chirp material for the rest of the season.

They’re about halfway through the giant stack of cards when Will finally notices the words on the front of them.

“So, um, I swear I’m not trying to be a jerk,” he starts carefully, “but ah, I thought queer was like, not an okay word to use?”

“Nah, dude,” Nursey corrects him casually, “it used to be a slur, but the community has reclaimed it. Lots of people identify as queer.”

“Oh, sorry.” His cheeks burn. 

Nursey nudges him. “Don’t sweat it, you’re learning.”

He sighs, frustrated with himself for just how much he still doesn’t know. “Trying to.” He flips the card over in his hand, reading thoughtfully. “What’s the difference between bisexual and pansexual?”

“Ah, that answer gets a little dicey depending on who you ask, but, basically, bi people are attracted to two genders and pan people are attracted to people regardless of their gender.”

“Oh, so like, pan is when you’re attracted to all genders but bisexual people are attracted to men and women?”

Chowder replies this time, “Bisexuality is a little more complicated than just being attracted to men and women; you have to be careful that your language doesn’t exclude nonbinary and trans people.”

“Right, right, I’m sorry.”

“Seriously, dude, it’s fine. We both know you didn’t have a lot of exposure to queer people growing up, it takes time to unlearn cishet biases.”

Chowder is right, of course; compared to his upbringing in California and Nursey’s in Manhattan, Will’s hometown is a lot less diverse. That doesn’t mean there weren’t any gay people, but it was something no one talked about, at least, not in a positive way. You just--you can’t _ be _queer in Old Town, Maine. It’s a small town in a Republican state, built on the backs of men pulling themselves up by their bootstraps and making a meager living doing the work that needed to be done. Will knows how to survive there. Keep your head down, keep things to yourself, and do not, under any circumstances, let them figure you out.

He doesn’t know how he identifies. He spent so long burying the possibility that he could be anything but straight that he’s not sure if his attraction to girls is real or made up. If he is bisexual, he fully intends on ignoring the part of him that’s attracted to guys because why would he put himself through all of that pain when he could just not?

“Hey,” Nursey startles him out of his thoughts and Will has to swallow roughly at the soft smile on his face. He can’t believe he has the privilege of being looked at like that by Derek Nurse. “You should come with us to the Center some time; some really cool people hang out there, it’d be a good chance for you to expand your horizons.”

Will furrows his eyebrows, trying to decide if he’s being chirped or not. 

“Yeah, that’d be swawesome, Dex!” Chowder agrees enthusiastically. “They obviously don’t mind straight people hanging out; I’m there all the time!”

Will takes a moment before responding because one: Chowder is straight? Two: everyone already thinks _ he _ is straight? And three: Nursey is _ not _straight?

“Uh, yeah, I mean, sure,” he eventually stammers out, red in the face.

“We’ll be setting up a booth to sell these cards next Saturday, you should sign up to help out, too!”

“Damn, I can’t, I’m going back to Maine next weekend.”

Nursey raises his eyebrows. “Dude, we were just home for like, three weeks.”

Will only hesitates a little bit before explaining, “My brother’s coming home.”

“Home from…?” Chowder prompts.

Now he hesitates longer. He knows how tense things can get when the police and military are brought up around people of color and he’s trying to understand but-- “He’s been stationed in Iraq for nine months.”

The beat of tense silence is probably only noticeable because he’s listening for it, but he still cringes.

“Army?” Chowder asks quietly, like he’s trying to make Will feel comfortable but not make Nursey feel even more uncomfortable; Nursey who’s gone still and quiet on Chowder’s other side, suddenly very interested in tying the perfect ribbon.

“Coast guard,” he corrects just as quiet. 

“Oh, cool!” Now his inquiry sounds more genuine, and Will’s heart swells with pride because yeah, his brother is pretty cool. “I didn’t even know you had a brother. Are you guys close?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I mean, close as we can be; he enlisted as soon as he turned 18 so, you know, I don’t see him a lot.”

Chowder’s mouth turns down in sympathy. “Sorry, that must be hard.”

Another shrug. He doesn’t really feel like whining about it when Nursey looks like he wants to bolt. “He’s doing important work; makes it easier to deal with him being away.”

Nursey’s scoff is nearly silent, but it’s still there, and Will’s eyes snap to him.

“You got something to say, Nurse?” He bites out, trying to rein in the anger and give his teammate a chance to explain himself. 

“Nope,” he replies, all fake chill and false acceptance.

Through gritted teeth he says, “I can’t understand where you’re coming from if you refuse to talk to me.”

Nursey meets his eyes with a cold glare. “It’s not my fucking job to educate you. Read a book.”

“How about you don’t make assumptions based on no information? Do you even know what the coast guard does?”

“I know what the United States military does in the middle east and it may shock you to learn that it’s nothing good, despite whatever stories your brother has made up about protecting the peace or whatever helps him sleep at night.”

“Oh, fuck you, dude. He’s been facilitating the delivery of humanitarian aid into Iraq--I mean he’s literally giving food, water, and medical supplies to citizens--are you telling me you have a problem with that?”

Nursey is still infuriatingly calm and collected. “I’m telling you I have a problem with military presence in the middle east, period.”

Will takes a breath. “Okay, man, I hear you. But my brother isn’t the Commander in Chief. He doesn’t make those decisions.”

“Right, but he’s supporting and condoning the actions of the US military by being an active part of it.”

“He’s saving lives.”

“Lives that are only being threatened because of the US.”

“That is totally false, dude what the fuck. Terrorist organizations are a serious threat.”

“The bombs that the US keeps dropping on Iraqi citizens are a serious threat.”

Will clenches his fists and snaps, “I fucking know that. One of them killed my dad.”

Chowder’s soft, “Dex…” threatens to bring tears to his eyes, so he roughly clears his throat.

“There was warning of an incoming air strike on a civilian target and my dad was trying to get people out. He got stuck.”

Chowder leans in to press their shoulders together, giving Will the strength to continue. “We didn’t find out for three days. There was nothing...we had to bury an empty coffin.” He lets out a long, shuddering breath before he’s able to meet Nursey’s eyes again. “I’m not an expert on US military strategy, okay? I don’t understand all of the nuances of foreign policy. My dad just wanted to protect people and my brother wants to do the same. Maybe they’re misguided.” He sets his jaw before finishing, “But they’re good people, and I won’t sit here and listen to you say otherwise.”

Nursey meets his gaze evenly. “My cousins are good people, too. Didn’t stop the US from dropping a bomb in their village and forcing them to live on the streets.”

Will blinks. “I’m sorry about your cousins, but what does--”

“They didn’t have a fucking choice, Dex,” Nursey snaps, chill forgotten. “They were normal people living their normal lives until a bomb destroyed everything. _ They _didn’t sign up for a made up war.”

Will’s heart sinks. Over Chowder’s sharp intake of breath, he stutters out, “Did you...are you really blaming my dad for his own death right now?”

Nursey’s face scrunches up and he scoffs, annoyed. “Oh, c’mon man, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I literally don’t, Nurse, because that’s what it sounded like.”

“Guys,” Chowder interjects sternly, “I think you’re both a little too emotionally invested in this topic to be having this conversation right now.” 

“I think Nursey is being an insensitive jackass right now,” Will fires back. 

“And I think Dex is thinking with his privilege instead of his brain, again.”

“Literally, how? Nurse, I just admitted that the military isn’t perfect, what the fuck do you want from me? Should I disown my brother because he believes in the humanitarian efforts of the coast guard?”

“Obviously not, don’t be a dick. I just mean that you need to have more empathy for--”

“Empathy?” Will interrupts, incredulous. “I fucking open up to you about my dad and you jump down my throat, and you want to tell _ me _to have empathy?”

“Yes! Empathy for experiences that are different than yours! What happened to your dad was awful, but you said it yourself, you don’t understand the nuances of military conflicts. I’m trying to help you understand. You fucking asked, dude. Not my fault you didn’t like the answer.”

With that, Nursey climbs to his feet and starts gathering the cards, roughly shoving them into boxes. 

Will, internally cursing himself for turning this into a screaming match, reaches out to grab his wrist. “Nurse, wait.” 

He freezes and looks down, meeting his eyes with a guarded expression. 

“You’re right, I did ask, and I’m sorry for getting so defensive.”

After a few tense moments, Nursey sighs, deflating, and sits back down. “No, man, I’m sorry for starting a fight when you were just trying to talk about your family. There’s a time and a place for that discussion, and this wasn’t it.”

Belatedly, Will releases his grip on Nursey’s wrist. “Are we okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Nursey looks more tired than frustrated when he nods slowly and replies, “Yeah, man, we’re cool.”

The moment of silence that follows is interrupted my Chowder’s exclamation, “You guys! I’m gonna cry!”

At Nursey’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “You’re communicating! And resolving conflicts! It’s so beautiful!”

Will buries his face and his hands while Nursey shoves Chowder, laughing, “Shut the fuck up, dude.”

He ignores him, pulling out his phone and insisting, “I have to tell the group chat!”

“Oh no you don’t.” Will scrambles to his knees so he can wrap his arms around Chowder, pinning his arms to his sides and reaching for his phone. The goalie squawks an indignant, “Dex!” but he’s laughing; they all are, and Nursey joins the tussle. They’re separated by Chowder, but suddenly Nursey’s face is _ right there _ and when he wrestles Chowder’s phone from his hand with a triumphant, “Aha!” and a devious smirk lights up his face, Will’s heart skips a beat.

Oh, fuck.

He pulls himself away from Chowder as cooly as he can manage and tosses a “Bathroom, be right back,” over his shoulder on his way out the door.

Okay. He can do this. He can ignore the part of him that’s attracted to boys. He has to. 

One curly-haired defenseman with a pretty face and a beautiful laugh is _ not _ going to change that.  
  


* * *

“I have to tell you something.”

Will’s mother looks up from where she’s kneading the soda bread dough, shaping it so it’ll fit in the pan Will has waiting for her, and tilts her head at him. “Sure, baby. What’s up?”

He hesitates. He doesn’t have to do this, he could back out right now. Nothing has to change.

“Will?” Her mouth turns down, concerned, and she wipes her hands on the towel leaning against the sink. They’re in the middle of making dinner for Luke's first night at home, but she seems content to abandon that because of whatever is showing on Will’s face right now. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I just--” he should make something up, drop it while he has the chance. God, what was he thinking? Just because John is out of the house doesn’t mean he needs to bring this up right now. He’s not ready, he’s not even sure, what if--

“Honey?” She puts a hand on his arm and Will is mortified when his eyes start burning. “What is it?”

“Mom, I--” Nope. He can’t do this.

“Billy, sweetheart, you’re shaking.” Belatedly, he realizes, he is. “Come sit.” She guides him to the kitchen table, all but pushing him into a chair, and pulls out another chair so she can sit right in front of him. She takes one of his hands in her own, and waits.

He tries again, gaze in his lap. “I--I need to--” he chokes on his breath, “you should know--”

“Oh, baby,” her voice is warm and loving and everything he needs right now, but it’s not making this any easier. She squeezes his hand. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

God, she knows, of course she knows, and if she knows then John probably knows and he’s gonna get his family kicked out of the house because he’s too selfish to ignore--

“Billy.” 

He looks up to meet her eyes and finds nothing but love there. It’s that unyielding acceptance that allows him to say out loud for the first time, “I like boys.”

She wastes no time in pulling him in for a tight hug and reassuring him, “That’s okay, baby, of course that’s okay, I love you no matter what. I just want you to be happy.”

He lets out a shuddering sob into her shoulder, completely overwhelmed, trying to process the relief passed the adrenaline that has him still shaking. 

That’s when he hears a quiet, “Um. Surprise?”

He pulls back from his mother like he’s been shocked, snapping his gaze to the entrance of the kitchen. The color drains from his face.

“Lucas.”

“I, ah,” Luke, wearing his civvies and looking even broader than the last time Will saw him, gestures towards the front door, “Jess let me in, said you guys were cooking. Thought I’d surprise you.” He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to, ah, interrupt.”

“Luke,” Will chokes out, horrified. “I--”

“Woah, little brother,” he holds up his hands. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Hey, are you--you don’t think...Oh my god, Will come here.” He holds out his arms with an exasperated expression, and Will blinks at him. 

“What, did you think I was gonna beat you up because you’re gay? Don’t insult me like that, Billy. Get your ass over here.”

It’s only when he’s scrambled to his feet to throw his arms around his big brother that Will manages to choke out, “I think I’m bi, actually.”

Luke laughs, and the sound brings tears to Will’s eyes all over again--fuck, he missed him. “Either way, I don’t give a shit. I love you, little dork.”

“You can’t call me little anymore,” Will laughs wetly, pulling back from the hug to wipe under his eyes. “I’m bigger than you.”

Luke punches his arm, hard, and Will knows they’re okay. “Still my kid brother.” 

Lou turns his gaze to their mother, his eyes softening. “Hey, Mom.” 

Their hug goes on for so long that Will goes back to cooking, giving them time to catch up. It’s not until he hears Luke say, “Health looks so beautiful on you, Mama,” that he turns around, his own eyes shining. She reaches out to grab Will’s hand, holding Luke’s with the other and says, “I had a lot to fight for. Cancer didn’t stand a chance.”

Later, when the girls have done the dishes (Will tried to help, but John dragged him out of the kitchen with a stern, “that’s a ladies’ job, boy”) and Luke and Will have tolerated their uncle’s drunken ramblings for long enough, they’re lounging on the roof, wrapped in quilts, beers in hand, and staring up at the stars. 

They’re quiet for a long time before Luke asks, “How is he?”

Will takes a long pull from his bottle before answering, “Honestly? Kind of terrible.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” He frowns, worrying the lip of the bottle between his fingers. “You know, I almost turned down the promotion.”

“Lou,” Will is quietly disappointed. He knows how hard his brother has been working to move up the ranks. 

“I know,” he sighs, “but I hate that you guys are here. I mean, I’m glad you’re at school most of the year, especially now knowing that you’re, you know, not straight,” and Will does _ not _flinch when he says that aloud, “but mom and the girls...I want them out, Will.”

“Me too, but what are we gonna do? We’re kind of stuck right now.”

“I could be working somewhere else; somewhere with a consistent salary and benefits for the whole family and--”

“And you’d be miserable,” he insists quietly. “It’ll be okay, we’re gonna figure it out.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” He sighs deeply and drains his bottle. “So, I’ll be getting a bit of a pay raise which means your cut of the rent will go down.”

“You don’t have to do that, you could be saving--”

“Will, you’re working yourself to death right now. I haven’t been away that long, I see the signs.”

His face turns red at the ease with which his brother just called him out. He’s not wrong.

“I mean it. Cut your hours at work. You can’t keep up this crazy schedule with work and school and hockey. Something’s gotta give.”

“I--yeah, alright, I will. Thanks, Luke.”

“You got it, little bro.”

After another brief silence, Will says quietly, “You know, dad would be so proud.”

“Yeah?” Luke’s voice cracks. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

His brother leans back on his elbows, tilting his chin upwards. “I miss him so much, man.”

Will is in real danger of crying for the second time today so what comes out next is, “Hey, do you remember that time he tried to open a fire hydrant for us and he just fucking broke it?”

Luke laughs, a startled, choked off sound. “Yeah, and the fire department came and pretended to be mad about it? God, that was a good summer.”

“Wasn’t that also the summer that he built the tree swing that almost killed Amanda?”

“Oh my god, I thought mom was gonna kill him when Jess asked him to build it again.”

They sit like that, shoulder to shoulder, recalling stories about their dad well into the night. By the time they eventually climb back into the attic and down the stairs, Will is exhausted, the emotional up-and-downs of the day taking their toll. 

“Get some sleep, Billy. We’re going on a run at 0600.”

Will checks his watch and groans. “So glad you’re home, Lou.”

He ruffles his hair with a grin. “Love you too, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! It's midterm season and ya girl is STRESSED
> 
> This chapter was originally going to be longer but I honestly prefer posting chapters more often because I crave positive feedback and need it to motivate me to keep writing otherwise I'll shrivel up in a hole of self-doubt and never write. 
> 
> I don't love the end of this chapter so I might come back and add to it.
> 
> Thanks for the comments so far you guys are so so nice to me!!


	4. Chapter 4

“Languages are _ dying, _Bits!”

“Yeah, well, hopefully French is the first to go,” he shoots back, dropping his head onto the kitchen table with a long groan, staring wistfully at the oven.

Nursey takes his comment seriously because of course he does. “Nah, French will be around forever.” He gestures with his pen, nearly sending his fourth cup of coffee this afternoon flying. “Celtic languages, however, are in serious danger.” 

Will blinks at that, lifting his gaze from his laptop screen for the first time in nearly an hour because, “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, man. There are only four left, maybe three million speakers.”

“Huh.”

He tilts his head at him. “What?”

“My dad spoke Gaeilge--ah, Irish.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, cheeks heating. “He taught me some. I mean, I’m not fluent, but,” he shrugs, “‘s a cool language.”

Nursey’s smile is warm and now Will is _ definitely _blushing. “For sure, man. That’s dope.”

Will ducks his head. The fact that Nursey thinks it's cool that he speaks some Irish when he himself is fluent in English, Spanish, _and _Arabic makes him feel special. But, then, something about being the focus of Nursey's attention always makes him feel special. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone speak Irish,” Bitty muses thoughtfully, latching onto the topic to avoid the reality of his French II midterm for just a while longer.

“Probably not,” Nursey agrees, “there are only, like, 20,000 speakers in the US.”

“Cool.” Bitty nudges Will. “Say something.”

“Something,” he deadpans. 

Bitty whacks him. “In _ Irish, _smartass.”

His blush deepens. “Ahh, okay…” He thinks for a moment before he tries, “Beidh muid ar an bhfoireann haca is fearr i mbliana," stumbling over the consonants, out of practice with the difficult phonetics. 

Bitty and Nursey blink at him.

Will laughs. “I said we’re gonna win this year.”

"Oh." Nurse holds his arm out for a fist bump. “Hell yeah.”

“Okay, okay no more language talk,” Bitty declares with finality. “My brain is melting.”

Nursey chuckles. “Didn’t you say you needed to finish those problem sets for calc today?”

He buries his face in his hands and groans again. “Maybe.”

Grabbing Bitty’s calculus notebook and flipping through the pages, Nursey makes a face. “Gross. Dex, this looks like your kinda thing. Here,” he chucks the notebook across the table. “I helped with the language stuff, you help with the numbers stuff.”

“Numbers stuff,” he grumbles under his breath, glancing quickly at the pages before tapping Bitty’s elbow. “You need help?”

The sophomore sighs. “Probably.” He raises his head to cock an eyebrow at him. “You understand this nonsense?”

Will shrugs. “Yeah, mostly. Numbers are easier than words for me.”

“Yeah, okay, can’t relate,” Nurse scoffs.

“Same.”

Now Nursey holds his fist out to Bitty. “Ayy, the gays who can’t do math club.”

Bits grins and taps his fist with his own while Will tries not to freeze too obviously. 

How do they...they just...there’s no _ hesitation. _ No fear. No uncertainty. Bitty and Nursey proclaim their sexuality with an air of confidence that Will won’t ever be able to replicate and, god, he’s so _ jealous. _

Something must show on his face despite his efforts to conceal his emotions, because Bitty tenses. 

“Dude,” Nursey deadpans, glancing from Bitty’s face to Will’s. “Please tell me our queerness isn’t a surprise to you.”

“No, no, I’m not--” he swallows roughly around the admission that almost crawled out of his mouth. More people can't know about him, not yet; the chances of John finding out increases exponentially with every person he comes out to. “I’m not, like, surprised--I mean I didn’t _ know _because you guys didn’t tell me specifically--I didn’t assume anything, I swear, I’m just--I mean--”

“You’re cool with this, right?” 

God, Will can’t believe that Nursey had to ask him that question; has he really been that much of a jackass?

He hurries to reassure them that, “No, yeah, of course I don’t care, I mean, I care about you guys since your my friends but I don’t, like--”

“You’re kind of freaking out, Dex,” Nursey notes carefully. 

He lets out a long breath and wills his heart to stop beating so fast because Nursey is right, he is freaking out, and of course it's going to read like disapproval to his teammates that don't know he isn't straight. “I’m sorry,” he forces the words to come out slowly. “I didn’t mean to make things weird. Of course I don’t care that you guys are queer.”

Nursey’s mouth is still turned down. “...Right,” he says, voice dripping in disbelief, but nonetheless ready to end the conversation. 

Will drops his head, staring at his keyboard and swallowing until he’s sure his voice won’t crack. When he looks up at Bitty, the sophomore is carefully avoiding his eyes. 

“Bits, you ready to work on those problem sets?” he asks, voice too bright. 

After a tense pause, Bitty smiles, and it’s so clearly forced that Will’s heart sinks. “No, I think I need a break.” He doesn’t say “from you”, but the ending is heavily implied. 

He starts shoving his books into his bag and the air in the room becomes so stiff that Will feels like he’s suffocating. 

“Bits,” he starts desperately, reaching out to touch his arm, but Bitty violently flinches away. 

Will pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. 

“Don’t,” Bitty says sharply, meeting Will’s eyes for the first time with a cool glare. Underneath the anger, there’s fear in his eyes, and Will instantly feels sick for putting it there. 

Bitty turns to stalk out of the kitchen and up the stairs, but not before Will catches the sadness on his face. He flinches when Bitty's door slams. 

“Nursey,” he says miserably, turning to find him frowning after Bitty, “what did I _ do _?”

“Oh, c’mon, man. Seriously?” He regards him with an air of impatience and when Will doesn’t respond, throws his hands up. “You can’t freak out when your teammates talk about being queer, Dex!”

“I wasn’t freaking out!” he protests lamely. 

“That was the literal definition of freaking out. Can you try to put yourself in his shoes for a second? Imagine what your reaction felt like to Bits--a guy that was closeted for eighteen years and was terrified to come out to his team, but finally did because he thought he’d be safe here, only to be met with you losing your shit after he’s already been out for a year. You can’t even begin to understand what that kind of microaggression feels like.”

Will shakes his head, frustrated, because _ yes, _ Nursey, he _ does _ understand what that feels like, but he can’t tell them that because people can’t know because if anyone but his mom and Luke knows, then it will somehow get back to Uncle John who _ can’t _know.

“Nursey, I--”

“Save it, dude.” He pushes back from the table and picks up his notebook. “Not gonna lie, I’m getting real fucking tired of explaining things to you that you should already know.”

“I’m_ trying, _Nurse,” he insists disparingly. 

“Yeah, well, try harder,” he snaps, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs. 

Will drops his head in his hands and resists the urge to scream. 

Every time he thinks they’re getting somewhere, every time Nursey lets his guard down around him, Will manages to fuck things up. He knows he gets defensive and he knows that it sometimes comes across as anger or disapproval, but he doesn’t know how to make his friends understand that his reactions are a reflection of _him_, not them. He’s angry at himself for being afraid, he’s disappointed in himself for being such a bad member of the LGBT community, and he hates himself for the burning jealousy he feels toward Nursey for making everything always seem so easy because _ none of this _is easy for him and he doesn’t think it ever will be. 

Footsteps thunder down the stairs but Will doesn’t lift his head, hoping whoever it is bypasses the kitchen and goes out the front door. 

“What the fucking _ fuck, _Poindexter?”

No such luck. 

When he lifts his head, blinking rapidly at the bright lights, Shitty is standing over him--fully dressed for once--with his hands on his hips. He looks as furious as he would on the ice if the opposing team landed a dirty hit on one of his linemates. Being on the receiving end of such a glare makes Will want to sink to the floor.

“Imagine my surprise,” he begins, voice booming, “when I go to find out why Bitty slammed his door and discover the reason he’s upset is because of his own teammate. Not only that, but now I come down to find you wallowing in self pity about it?”

“Oh, c’mon, Shits. I’m not—“

“You can’t fucking victimize yourself when _ you _are the aggressor.”

And that’s it. Will has had enough.

“Oh, _ fuck you _!” He shouts, pushing his chair back so hard that it topples over when he stands. He ignores it, roughly throwing his laptop and notebooks into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

All the while Shitty is still yelling. “You don’t get to play the “woe is me” card when your homophobia made your teammate feel unsafe. I'm trying to help you here, Dex! You can’t fucking run away every time you fuck up or you’ll never learn!”

Will can’t respond without saying something he’ll regret, so he ignores the senior and heads for the door.

Shitty steps into his path, blocking the exit, looking up at him with a tense face.

Will clenches his jaw so hard he’s worried he’ll crack a tooth, digging his nails into his palms and gritting out a quiet, “Move.”

“Are you going to make me, Poindexter?” Shitty challenges evenly.

He wants to say yes. He wants nothing more than to start a fight, because physical confrontation is easy, straightforward; he knows those rules. Shitty is smaller than him, but he’s been playing on the third and fourth lines for four years; he knows how to fight. He’s sure that Shitty could get a few solid hits in, maybe even enough for Will’s head to stop screaming at him.

But he’s also sure that getting into a fist fight with a teammate (never mind the fact that Shitty is an upperclassman) would get him kicked off the team or, at the very least, suspended and if he doesn’t have hockey he doesn’t have anything so—

“No,” he whispers, suddenly exhausted, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Please just let me go.”

There are a few beats of silence during which Will silently hopes that Shitty is going to hit him after all, before he finally sighs and steps back. 

“Fine, but at some point we have to talk about this.”

“Fine,” he echoes dully, shouldering passed his teammate and walking out the door without another word. 

He stops at his dorm just long enough to drop off his books and grab his gym bag before stalking to the athletic center, feeling torn between fury and despair. He runs on the treadmill until the only thing he feels is the burning in his lungs. 

* * *

Will throws himself into hockey. 

He’s always trained hard, but he turns it up a notch through the final weeks of the regular season, desperate to remind his teammates that he’s here for a reason, that even if they don’t like him off the ice, they can trust him on the ice. 

And it works. Mostly. 

His plus/minus is higher than it’s been in his whole life and he gets five points in two games during the regional semifinals. Nursey nearly matches him, and they’re moved up to the second line defense pair going into the regional finals at the end of March. 

But things are still...not right. He's stopped spending as much time at the Haus as he used to. It’s Bitty’s place. He doesn’t think he’s welcome there anymore; only going over for kegsters or mandatory meetings, otherwise claiming he’s hanging out with other friends while he’s really just sitting alone in his room, trying to figure out how to stop being such a piece of shit that no one wants to spend time with.

The guys aren’t being outwardly hostile, but they walk on eggshells around him, probably expecting that _ Will _is going to be hostile, and he doesn’t know how to make them stop. So, he pretends he doesn’t notice. He joins in on the chirping, but doesn’t initiate it, too afraid of hurting his friends. 

If he can even call them friends anymore.

They feel more like coworkers these days; all working hard toward a common goal, but outside of hockey, it’s like he doesn’t really know them. 

He doesn’t understand their inside jokes anymore so he muted the group chat, not wanting the constant reminders of just how isolated he’s made himself.

He didn’t know it was possible to miss people he sees everyday. 

Maybe things are better this way. He can do less damage from the outside. 

* * *

It takes almost two weeks and a swift kick in the ass from Lardo for Will to finally stop moping and start doing something to change his behavior. 

“Shits was right, Dex,” she says without preamble, startling Will where he’s bent over fixing the heater in the Haus. “You’re victimizing yourself when you have no right to be.”

He wants to ignore her words, but the churning in his gut speaks to their truth.

After a moment, he finally lifts his head. “I don’t know how to stop. I mean, where would I even start?”

She shakes her head sadly. “I can’t hold your hand through this. You need to figure it out on your own; only way you’re gonna learn.”

He sets his jaw and says, resolutely, “I want to be better.”

“Then prove it, Poindexter.”

* * *

He starts with Bitty.

It takes over an hour for the sophomore to answer his text which is already a bad sign--he’s always on his phone--but he does answer which is probably more than Will deserves. 

He walks into Annies at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday and ignores the anxiety swirling in his stomach because this isn’t about him. 

“Thank you for taking time out of your day to be here,” he begins as he sits across from his teammate. 

Bitty regards him carefully. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I owe you an apology,” he says slowly, waiting to see if Bitty is willing to hear him out. When he doesn’t scoff and bolt, Will continues, “I was unfair to you--and to the rest of the queer people on the team--but mostly to you, and I really regret that. It took me a long time to realize I’ve been dealing with my own internalized homophobia--” he ignores Bitty’s gasp and ploughs on, “and that I was taking it out on you. I was jealous that you were out and I felt like I couldn’t be, and I didn’t know how to deal with being so afraid to come out. I couldn’t understand how you weren’t afraid, but I get it now, that being queer means being afraid and living your life anyway. I’m so sorry that I hurt you while I was trying to figure that out.”

“Dex...are you--?”

“Yeah, Bits. I’m gay.” He’s practiced saying that in the mirror so many times this week that he doesn’t flinch anymore, but he still hurries to add, “I’m not really ready to be out yet, I just, I know I can trust you.”

“Will, honey--” Will can’t remember the last time Bitty used a term of endearment to refer to him but he’s _ not _going to cry-- “thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening.” He clears his throat. “I know that being gay doesn’t absolve me of being an oppressive asshole and I’m trying to be better.”

Bitty’s expression turns knowing. “You’ve been doing your research, I see.” 

Will shrugs, sheepish. “I had a lot to learn. A lot to unlearn. Still do.”

“Change is hard,” Bitty nods sympathetically.

“How did you do it?" he asks, a little desperate. "I mean, you’re white."

Bitty laughs. “Good observation, Dex. I am, in fact, white.” His face softens when Will doesn’t laugh with him. “I had to learn, too, sweetheart. I grew up around black people, most of the boys on my football team and a good chunk of my hockey team were black, but I still had biases to challenge when I got to Samwell and I was definitely a little bit racist. You just...you listen, I guess. You listen and learn and change your behavior and try to be the best ally that you can.” His expression turns wry. "That means not starting fights with your teammate when he calls you out for saying something problematic."

Will makes a face. "I didn't realize how that would--fuck. I never meant to come across as racist--or, like, _be _racist, I guess. I just--" He groans, frustrated. "I'm going to be better."

“I know you are, hon,” Bitty agrees easily. “And I forgive you.”

Will swallows roughly. “No, it’s--you don’t, like, have to, I know I really upset you, you don’t have to forgive me right away, I don’t expect--”

“Dex,” Bitty interrupts him sternly. “Yes, you hurt me, but you learned from your actions and you apologized genuinely. You deserve forgiveness for that.”

Will breathes deeply and tries to believe him.

* * *

Two days before their first game in the semifinals, Will gets a call from his mother in the middle of a team meeting at the Haus. He can’t just excuse himself to answer (can’t give the team another reason to be mad at him) but he wants to. The fact that she’s calling isn’t good news. 

As soon as Jack releases them, Will jogs up the stairs and climbs out to the reading room. He taps his mom’s contact, holding his breath.

“Hey, Billy,” she answers calmly.

“How did it go?”

Her pause tells him everything he needs to know and he drops his chin to his chest, letting out a long breath. 

“How bad?” His voice breaks. 

“We don’t know yet, sweetie,” her voice is carefully light. “They sent a couple of tissue samples out, but the lab won’t have the results for another few days. It’s something, but not necessarily reason to panic just yet.”

“Mom--”

“Billy,” she interrupts sternly. “I know exactly what’s going through your head right now and you need to stop. I can handle this.”

“But I can--”

“No. You are about to play the most important hockey of your life and _ that _is where your head needs to be right now. This is why I wasn’t going to tell you, I told your sisters I didn’t want you to know--”

“They didn’t have to tell me, I know when your six-month scans are coming up.”

She sighs. “Billy…”

“How bad, mom?” 

“It’s...we’re leaning toward scheduling a double mastectomy sooner rather than later.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath and holds it until he doesn’t feel like he’s going to lose it. He can break down later. His mom needs him right now. 

“Did they say anything about why it came back?”

“That’s just the nature of cancer sometimes, baby. It happens.”

“But why did it have to happen to _ you? _” he whines, voice breaking again and feeling all too much like the scared teenager that he pretends not to be.

He angrily swipes away a few tears that manage to escape. 

“God gives the hardest battles to the ones He knows can fight them,” she tells him easily, practiced.

Will lets out a laugh despite himself. “It’s been a while since you’ve given me that line.”

“Mhm, and it hasn’t been that long since you’ve disgraced the word of God.” Her voice is teasing, and Will finds himself smiling at the familiar banter. 

After a moment of silence, his mother breathing in his ear close and quiet and _ alive _, Will finally says, “I can come home.”

“No, baby,” her voice is so warm, he leans into his hand holding his phone, “you know that’s not what I want you to do.”

“What about what I want?”

“The semester is over in less than seven weeks. We won’t have a surgery date until June, earliest.”

“Okay,” he forces himself to breathe and think logically. “Okay, that’s good. Is Judy going to help you take care of the bills?”

“I don’t need to bother Judy with all this, I have it covered.”

“Mom--”

“Billy. That woman has done more than enough for this family. I will not burden her with mountains of paperwork that I can just do myself.”

“Let me help you,” he pleads. 

“In all of your spare time?” she asks. “Don’t you patronize me, William. I am more than capable of dealing with insurance companies.”

“They’re not going to approve the second round of chemo,” he reminds her, “they wanted you to do more radiation last time.”

“Well, I’ll just have to talk to them.”

She’s lying through her teeth and Will grits his own.

“We can’t get approved for a loan.”

“We might not need one.”

“Mom! Can you be realistic about this for a second?” 

“William Jacob Poindexter, if you raise your voice at me one more time--”

“I’m sorry, mom, I’m sorry,” he pleads, deflating. “I just hate that you have to do this alone.”

“I’m not alone. John and the girls are here.”

Now it’s Will’s turn to scoff. “Yeah, I’m sure John will be a great cancer nurse.”

His mother laughs and Will can’t help but smile at the sound. “Okay, maybe you have a point. But don’t forget, your sisters are fourteen, now. They’re not little girls anymore.”

He makes a face that she can’t see. “Yes, they are.”

She laughs again. “Billy, sweetheart, I am going to be just fine. I will take care of insurance and I will figure out how to pay for whatever treatments the doctors deem necessary. I don’t need you to worry about me.”

His eyes start stinging again. “I’m always gonna worry about you, momma.”

“I love you, and your big, silly, heart.”

“I love you too. Talk to you soon.”

He pulls his knees to his chest, rests his forehead against them, and tries to remember how to breathe.

“All you do is worry, Poindexter.”

Will nearly falls off the roof with how hard he startles at Nursey’s voice. He’s acutely aware of how red and raw his face is right now, and the thought of being caught breaking down like this makes him defensive. That’s the only reason he can think of for why he snaps, “Yeah, well, some of us having fucking responsibilities, Nurse.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he whips his head around to meet Nursey’s eyes, color draining from his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, stumbling over his words in a rush to get them out, “I--shit, Nursey, I didn’t mean that. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He buries his face in his knees again so he doesn’t see what his linemates’ face does in response, but he’s surprised when he feels him sit next to him, not quite close enough to touch. Nursey should run before Will can hurt him anymore, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he says, easily, “I forgive you.”

Will doesn’t respond, unsure if he should try to explain his outburst or if that would make things worse. 

Nursey decides for him by asking, “You wanna talk about it?”

He shrugs, trying to put out that same unaffected air that Nursey always possess, but what comes out of his mouth is, “My mom’s cancer came back.”

“Fuck, dude,” he sucks in a breath, “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too,” he fights to keep his voice even, “we thought she was free. It’s been almost three years.”

“Do they know what stage yet?”

He shakes his head. There’s so much he doesn’t know yet and he needs to be there with her, not here playing a stupid sport for a team that doesn’t even need him. 

“Is there anything I can do?”

Will’s chest tightens.

How--after everything--how is Nursey still so genuine and kind? How can a person like him possibly be worthy of the friendship of someone like Nursey?

He doesn’t deserve to ask him for favors. But this is his mother they’re talking about.

“Actually, um,” he bites his lip, considering, “your dad works for that insurance company, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he confirms, thrown by the question. “Why?”

“Is there any way, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, we could really use some help sorting through our benefits.”

“Of course, dude,” he replies earnestly. “Here,” he reaches for Will’s phone, still clutched in his hand, “let me give you his email.”

While he’s busy with the phone, Will finds the courage to continue, “During her first round of treatment, insurance fucked us over so many times we ended up taking out a second mortgage on the house.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Of course, that ended up not being enough and we lost it anyway.”

Nursey hands his phone back. “That why you moved in with your uncle?” he asks carefully.

“Yeah, we didn’t really have another option. Guess that’s supposed to make me feel grateful.”

“Grateful to that asshole? Yeah, I think not.”

Will has complained about John’s bullshit often enough for the team to understand that they don’t have a good relationship, but he’s never really elaborated. He’s surprised to find that he wants to.

“He wasn’t so bad at first,” he starts slowly. “I mean, he kind of left us to our own devices but he was pleasant enough. Then Lou--my brother, Lucas--enlisted and John took on the head of the household role and decided he could hike up our rent whenever he felt like it.”

“Is that even legal?”

“It’s family, Nurse. It’s not like there’s a contract involved.”

“There should _ always _ be a contract involved.”

“Well, we didn’t know that at the time. We were homeless and desperate and my sisters were still in middle school and my mom was in the middle of chemo so we practically fell over ourselves to thank John for his generosity.” He can’t help the way he spits the last word. “My mom, my brother and I cover the whole mortgage on his house, plus most of the other bills. He pays the cable.”

“Wow,” Nursey deadpans. “The cable.”

Will laughs at the absurdity of it all. “I know, right?” He shakes his head, still laughing, because if he stops he might start crying. “He’s such a piece of shit, dude. I think I’d rather live with the LAX bros.”

Nursey laughs, too, but it’s guarded, careful. “Gross, really?”

“Yeah, I mean, there’d be the same amount of bullying, but significantly more free alcohol,” he aims for a light tone, but Nursey face tells him he missed.

“Is he really that bad?” he asks, concerned.

Will ducks his head and swallows roughly. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s--uh, not good.” His voice cracks and he flinches. He’s not ready to have this conversation with a teammate, even if it is just Nursey. “But, I mean,” he forces his tone to stay light, “lots of people have it so much worse, so, you know, it’s whatever.”

“Hey, no, don’t do that.” Nursey frowns. “The fact that others are struggling doesn’t mitigate your problems.”

Will can’t help it. His lips twitch and he mutters, “Mitigate” under his breath.

It has the desired effect. Nursey laughs and shoves him.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m well read, okay?”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Will fights to keep the smile off his face. 

“Your a pain in my ass, Poindexter.”

Is he imagining it, or is that fondness he hears in Nursey’s voice?

“Look, you don’t have to talk about it with me, or with anyone,” Nursey brings the conversation back to the serious side, “but if things are really bad at home, you don’t have to keep it to yourself.”

“It’s not--I don’t know, it’s not really like that. He doesn’t, like, beat me, I just...I can’t say that he never would?” 

When Nursey reaches out to squeeze his knee, Will clasps his hands together to keep from squeezing back. 

“And, it’s not even me I’m worried about, you know? My baby sisters are alone with him sometimes and the thought that he could hurt them and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it...God, it makes me sick, Nurse.” He shakes his head, letting out a sound that’s half-laugh half-sob. “And now my mom is sick again and I’m not there but he is and he isn’t going to help her--he’ll probably make things harder--but what are we gonna do? There’s nowhere for us to go and for so long things have been on just this side of ‘not that bad’ so it’s not like any _ legal _ stuff applies here it’s just the little things he says and does every day that wear us down and I’ve seen the effect it’s had on my mom and my brother doesn’t even want to be _ home _anymore and--”

“Dex, holy shit,” Nursey shakes him frantically, “you have to _ breathe. _”

It’s only then that he realizes his chest is way too tight and he’s nearly gasping for air.

“Sorry, sorry,” he shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, “I’m fine, I’m good.”

Nursey lets him fight to get his breathing back under control for a moment before saying, softly, “It’s okay if you’re not fine, Dex, this is some heavy shit.”

“No, it’s--I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.” He can’t keep throwing his problems at his teammates like this. It’s not fair to them. Nursey is his friend (maybe), not his fucking shrink. 

“Dex--”

“Just drop it, Nurse,” Will cuts him off sharply, then makes an effort to soften his tone. “I’m sorry, I just--I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please.”

He sighs. “Alright, man. I’m sorry. I’ll back off.”

They sit in silence for a while, Will breathing through the tingling in his arms and legs, pretending he doesn’t notice his teammate watching him carefully, before Nursey asks, voice casual, “You wanna go to the mess and eat our weight in sugary cereal?”

Will barks out a laugh despite himself, because while he can't imagine eating anything right now passed the fear swirling around his gut, Nursey's attempt to help him feel better is not subtle and so very like him.

“Yeah, actually. That sounds great.”

Nursey smiles. “Great.”

Will smiles back, accepting the hand that he reaches down to help him up because he still feels a little unsteady, and tells himself he doesn't have butterflies in his stomach, he's just a little bit nauseous. 

Things mellow out after his little heart-to-heart with Nursey. 

Will is starting to realize that the more open he is with his teammates, the more they respect him, so he's trying. 

But, fuck, it’s so _ hard _.

He’s hanging out with a few of the guys in Ransom and Holster’s hotel room after their first game in the semifinals, sipping his gatorade while rolling out his calves, most of the guys at a similar point in their post-game routines. They started the evening talking about Boston U’s offensive strategy, but quickly diverted to other topics, having exhausted their brains with hockey for the day. 

They won the game 4-2, they’ve earned some time to relax. 

“Bruh, no way you didn’t lose your virginity until you were eighteen,” Holster scoffs, shaking his head, “I refuse to believe your beautiful ass was a virgin longer than I was.”

Bitty laughs and shrugs casually, but his face is bright red. “What can I say? There weren’t exactly hundreds of queer men in rural Georgia waiting in line for me.”

“Well if _ I _was a queer man in rural Georgia, I would've lined up for you.”

Bitty laughs again and shakes his head fondly. “Thanks, Holster. You certainly would’ve been better than the boy who finally did line up.”

The room erupts into laughter and shouts of interest. 

“Deets, Bits!” Shitty hollers to the assent of the room.

He buries his face in his hands. “Oh my lord, stop. Y’all are insufferable, I swear.”

“C’mon, Bits,” Ransom pushes, “who made the first move?”

“Twenty bucks says it was Bitty,” Nursey shouts with a sly grin.

Holster scoffs. “No way, he’s too “southern gentlemanly” to make a move.”

Bitty levels him with a glare. “I’ll have you know, Birkholtz, that I sucked his dick behind the bleachers after hockey practice.”

The room explodes.

“Yooo!” Nursey screams, while Holster and Ransom trip over themselves in their haste to slap Bitty on the back. 

Chowder turns to Will, face beet red, and says, “I feel like we’re talking about my dad.”

Will laugh comes at a break in the screaming, and several heads turn toward him, expressions closing off. He reminds himself to not be offended by their reaction; they all still probably think he's a homophobic jerk, he's earned the apprehension.

“Got something to add, Dex?” Shitty asks, feigning nonchalance. 

“Nope.”

This time it’s Ransom raising a challenging eyebrow. “If you have a problem with talking about sucking dicks, the door is over there.”

Will’s heart is pounding in his chest, but he pastes on an easy smile. This is his team, these are his friends; they've proven time and time again that they have his back. They deserve Will's trust.

“It’d be a little hypocritical of me to have a problem with gay sex.”

The room freezes.

“Did you just--?” Shitty is the first to ask, cutting himself off in disbelief. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

“If you think I mean I’m gay, then yeah.”

The room explodes again. Ransom and Holster tackle him at the same time and Shitty fights to join the pile, ruffling his hair and yelling in his ear. 

“You beautiful, ginger motherfucker! Why didn’t you say something before you let me call you a homophobe?”

Will ducks his head. “I mean, ah, I kind of was acting like a homophobe. I didn’t really know how to deal with--” he gestures vaguely, “the whole gay thing and I ended up taking it out on the guys who were already out.” He turns to meet Bitty’s eyes first, then Nursey’s, holding his gaze when he says, “I’m sorry for being such a jackass.”

“Coming out and apologizing?” Holster blinks, interrupting whatever Nursey was going to say. “Am I in the twilight zone?”

He laughs and shoves the junior off of him. “Alright, Holtzy, I know I deserved that, but fuck off.”

“Also, for the record, Poindexter,” Ransom starts, “Holtz and I are both bi.”

“Ayy, nice rhyme, Rans,” Holster grins and holds his hand out for a fist bump.

The guys harass him for a while longer, until Jack comes around to knock on everyone’s doors, calling a sharp, “Lights out in ten!” and they all retire to their own rooms.

Nursey hasn’t said anything to him about his coming out, and he doesn’t expect him to, but when he goes to shut the light in their shared hotel room, Nursey stops him.

“Hold up.” He waits for Will to meet his eyes before saying, “That was brave as fuck, dude.”

He shrugs, face heating. “It’s not like I expected the team to be unaccepting.”

“Yeah, but regardless of how progressive the audience, coming out is scary. Proud of you, man.”

Will smiles, feeling the weight of that secret finally lifting off his shoulders, and feeling a renewed desire to try to be as nice to Nursey as he’s been to him.

“Thanks. I’m really glad I told them.”

“Me too.” He gestures for Will to turn off the light, but turns his bedside lamp on. He sits on the edge of his bed and Will mirrors him on his own. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, but does your family know?”

He nods. “Yeah, yeah my mom and my brother know. They were cool about it.”

Nursey’s answering smile is warm. “Cool.” His face twists a little when he adds, “I take it John doesn’t know.”

Will freezes. “No.” He looks up, face serious, heart beating fast all over again. “No, he _ can’t _know.”

“Hey, dude, it’s okay,” Nursey rises from his bed, crossing the room so he can sit next to Will and put a steadying hand on his arm. His voice is resolute when he says, “He’s not gonna find out; no one’s gonna tell him.”

“I know,” he says roughly, reminding himself to be honest. “Objectively, I know, but it’s not a secret anymore--like, the fact that I’m gay is out in the world now. I _ know _the chances of that information reaching John are slim, but…” 

“But it’s still scary?” Nursey offers.

Will nods, so grateful that he’s being understood, and presses their shoulders together. “Terrifying.”

Nursey squeezes his arm gently. “I’m sorry you have to live with that fear.”

He opens his mouth to agree, but then Nursey moves his thumb where it’s pressed into Will’s forearm and he thinks about how things have changed over the past few days; how much closer he’s gotten to the team since making an effort to be open with them. And he thinks about how things will continue to change now that he’s out to them and how much freer he can be. So while the thought of John discovering he’s gay makes him want to vomit, he doesn’t regret coming out.

He knocks his shoulder into Nursey’s and says, “I’d rather live with that fear than live in the closet.”

The way Nursey looks at him in response makes him feel...something.

“What?”

“Dude!” he crows joyously, “That was poetic as fuck!”

“Oh my god,” Will shoves him back toward his own bed. “Go the fuck to sleep, Nurse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!! This is over 6200 words if that makes it better.
> 
> This chapter marks the end of Dex's freshman year, the next will pick up at the start of sophomore year. 
> 
> Also wanted to note that while this is a Nursey/Dex fic, the focus here is on Dex's journey of self-discovery. Eventually we'll see nurseydex fall into each other the way they do in every universe, but again, this is largely a Dex show. 
> 
> Also also, Dex told his brother in the last chapter that he thinks he's bi, but he comes out as gay here. Being unsure about labels and even changing labels as you grow and learn more about yourself is normal and common! 
> 
> As always your comments make my day and I always take the time to reply to every single one. Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for allusion to off-screen physical abuse

Will steps back from his closet, considering the meager amount of clothing he’s finally finished hanging, and smiles. The room isn’t much more than four walls, a bed, and a desk, but thanks to being approved to be an RA this year, it’s all his, and he takes a moment to close his eyes and enjoy the quiet.

He didn’t mind sharing a dorm last year; his roommate was polite enough, not a total slob, didn’t come back to the room drunk off his ass at 3 a.m. more than twice, and, most importantly, he didn’t mind that Will had to get up at the asscrack of dawn for practice more often than not. 

But Will is very much an introvert. He’s easily burned out by spending time with people and he craves his own space. The solitude doesn’t make him sad the way it does for a lot of his friends, it refuels him. Will is a reserved person who thrives in silence.

So when his phone rings shrilly and interrupts the stillness of the room, he groans. 

If it were anyone but Chowder calling, he’d probably just ignore it, not yet ready to face the reality of a new school year beginning, a new season of hockey where he’ll be expected to perform at a higher level than last year. He just spent the better part of three hours unpacking and all he wants to do is take a shower and a nap, in that order.

But since it _ is _his teammate calling, that must mean--

“Hey, C! You here?”

“Dex!” Chowder yells exuberantly over the phone. “Yeah, Nursey and I are at the Haus! Come help me unpack?”

The sound of his voice brings a smile to Will’s face. It’s been a long summer. “For sure, I’ll be there in ten.”

“It is...very teal in here,” Nursey remarks, turning slowly to take in the whole room.

Chowder’s grin is as blinding as the paint on the walls. “It’s perfect!”

Will can’t help but smile at the enthusiasm in his friend’s voice. The room looks good, if very blue, and it only took the three of them two hours to get everything set up. It helped that Chowder was easy to please; agreeing with Nursey's suggestions for placement of the furniture and wall decorations, and trusting Will to set up the shelves and nightstand despite initially expressing hesitation when Will insisted he didn't need the directions. 

He’s a little insulted by that.

He and Nursey have fallen back into the comfortable, if at times contentious friendship they developed last year. They chirp each other when it’s appropriate, back off when it isn’t (most of the time), and they manage to get through their first afternoon back at Samwell without making Chowder or Bitty break up an argument. 

It’s a good start. 

  
  


“Wicked slapshot, Dexy!”

Holster smacks his helmet so hard, Will winces, but he’s grinning around his mouth guard, smug. Getting a puck passed Chowder is always something to celebrate; the guy is a brick wall.

Ransom slides to a stop at his side and whistles lowly. “Man, I’d hate to be the guy responsible for blocking that shot.” He, too, smacks Will’s helmet. “Glad we have that rocket on our team.”

He sees Nursey skating towards them from the corner of his eye and braces himself for the hit, sliding backwards and laughing as his d-partner tackles him. 

He speaks over Nursey’s helmet, arms wrapped around his shoulders when he says, “Easy to make those shots when your partner finds your tape every time.”

“Easy to make those passes when you find open ice every time.” Nursey shrugs out of the hug and, of course, smacks Will’s helmet. “You’ve been working on that slapper, though, I can tell.”

Will smacks him back. “Someone’s gotta score goals now that Jack’s a big NHL star,” he chirps, grinning wickedly when the other d-man boo at him, not appreciating being called out on the fact that they have yet to put a puck in the net. They’re only halfway through the first practice of the season, but the guys are getting restless. 

He did work hard on his slapshot over the summer--more out of necessity than anything else. He was lucky to get on the ice one a week while he was home; using the limited time to work on edgework drills to keep his skating as sharp as possible, so he couldn’t do a lot of skating with the puck. He’d take his stick and a few balls to the woods behind his house and practice his shot for hours; aiming for trees and, as he improved, branches, eventually snapping small branches off their trunks. The drag of dirt and leaves means his shot is even harder on the ice--something he didn’t anticipate--so while his skating leaves something to be desired, his aim is better than ever. 

He’ll take what he can get.

“Poindexter!” Coach Hall hollers from across the ice, beckoning him forward when he turns to look at him, “Come demonstrate that shot for the rookies.”

Nursey shoves him good naturedly in the direction of the new d-men. “Yeah, go show the kids how it’s done.”

Will flushes and ducks his head, but he’s biting back a smile as he crosses the rink. He can’t help but remember how different things were last year; how often he brought attention to himself by doing something wrong, and it feels good for the opposite to be true right now.

An hour of shooting drills and not many goals scored later, the guys are all getting unchanged in the locker room, recounting stories from the summer that they were only able to talk about over text and generally doing their best to terrorize the new players. 

“Oh, fuck off, Chow. You just threw that jock strap there this morning to gross out the kids.”

“No, Nurse, I’m telling you: that’s been there all summer. It lives there now.”

Nursey rolls his eyes, walks to the showers, grabs the jock strap, and lobs it at Chowder. He catches it and throws it at the freshman who scream and scatter. 

“Fine for flinching!” Holster shouts.

The new center, Connor, scoffs, “Like you wouldn’t have flinched.”

He stands to his full height, chin raised, and replies, “Real men don’t flinch.”

Will pulls off his shirt and whacks Holster with it. “Fine for sexist language.”

The locker room goes silent. 

He turns to meet the horrified expressions of his teammates, confused. “What? He just “real men”--ed us. That’s twenty bucks, minimum.”

“Dude,” Ransom breathes, eyes wide, “did I hit you that hard?”

“Huh?” Will follows Ransom’s gaze and realizes that the team is staring at the bruises littering his torso, all different shades, some black, others light purple, some yellowing or fading altogether.   
  


Oh. Right.

Will feigns nonchalance, grinning wryly. “What, you guys have never seen some bruises on a hockey player?”

“Not _that_ _many,_” Bitty insists, tone way too concerned. “How on earth did you get all those?”

He shrugs, hiding a wince when it pulls at his banged up shoulder. “I was working on boats all summer. Shit happens.”

“Shit like the boats attacking you?” Chowder asks, incredulous. 

Will rolls his eyes. “No, man, shit like things breaking and falling on me. Why do you all look like I kicked your puppies?”

“Because _ you _look like you got kicked, Dex,” Bitty says, walking forward to gently place his hand over the largest bruise that covers half of the right side of his rib cage. Will grits his teeth and reminds himself not to do something ridiculous like flinch away from his tiny teammate. “Did these ribs break?”

“Nope,” he says lightly, “just bruised.”

It’s not a lie. Somehow, his ribs weren’t cracked, just bruised down to the bone, but he still had trouble drawing a deep breath for a couple of weeks. Even now, any pressure on his side makes him gasp. He didn’t think any of the guys picked up on the way he was turning his left side to the boards, more willing to let his teammates brush his bruised ribs than have them crushed against the glass. 

“That bruise isn’t ‘just’ anything,” Bits replies sternly. 

“If your job is that dangerous, why don’t you just get a new one?” Holster asks.

Will scoffs, gently twisting out of Bitty’s reach. “Easier said than done, dude. Besides, someone has to do the work, and it pays well.”

“Well enough to justify breaking a bone and missing the whole season?”

“I’m not gonna break a bone, Holtzy,” he sighs. “You guys are overreacting.”

“Nah, man, I’m pretty sure you’re underreacting,” Whiskey states.

Will feels his blood start to boil. He’s trying to be patient with his team--they’re just worried about him, and they have reason to be--but this has gone on long enough, and now even the tadpoles are getting involved. He’s making it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about this. 

“Jesus, guys, chill,” Nursey drawls lazily, but Will knows him well enough to hear the bite of anger under his words, “Dexy’s fine. Let it go.”

And just like that, Will’s anger fades, replaced by gratitude for Nursey’s ability to understand what he needs without having to say anything. He gives his teammate a look that he hopes conveys his thanks and gets a sad smile in return that tells him this conversation isn’t actually over. He swallows roughly. 

Several of the guys continue to make concerned faces at him, but Will turns his back and continues undressing, ready to get into the showers and back in concealing clothing as fast as possible. Of course, doing so means he has to reveal more skin, and he hears the quiet gasps from behind him when the purple monstrosity on his left thigh is uncovered. He doesn’t acknowledge them, taking the fastest shower of his life and bolting from the locker room before he can get cornered again. 

He makes it back to his dorm before he slumps against the wall and shakes apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short but I wanted to get this little bit posted before I finish writing what the rest of this chapter was supposed to be to keep things moving. I finally feel like I'm on track to write something that I don't hate (woo hoo!) and I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who offered their assistance and kind words in reply to my author's note on the last chapter.  
This story continues to exist because of the nicest group of readers, so thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re _ sure _he doesn’t know?”

“Positive.”

“Then what the _ fuck _is his problem?”

Will is leaning against the wall, sitting cross legged on his bed, picking at the hole in his jeans. “He’s a drunk, Nurse,” he says quietly, gaze downturned. “He doesn’t need to know I’m gay to find reasons to get angry at me.”

Not that Will hasn’t given him plenty of reasons, intentional or otherwise. The more time he spends away from his uncle, the less tolerant of his ignorant bullshit he becomes which has led to louder and longer screaming matches. Three weeks into summer break, those verbal fights turned physical.

He’s honestly surprised it took so long. 

Nursey, agitatedly pacing the room like he’s done since Will finally stopped shaking long enough to give him the okay to come over, scoffs. “Getting angry and beating the shit out of you are very different things.”

“It’s not that bad--”

“He fucking bruised your bones!” Nursey cries, whirling around to face him with fear in his eyes.

Will’s face heats, ashamed he let that happen. “He apologized--”

“Yeah, _ after _he drove his boots into your ribs! Dex!” Nursey pauses to rub his hands roughly over his face and he sounds exhausted when he says, “Please tell me you understand how not okay this is.”

Will clenches his jaw, not appreciating being patronized, and snaps, “Obviously it’s not okay, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Fucking _ tell _someone!” Nursey pleads.

“I just told you!”

“Someone at home, someone who can help!”

“What, like my mom?” he spits, “Yeah, let me dump this on her while she’s recovering from cancer surgery.”

Nursey lets out a long breath, deflating, and sits heavily next to Will on the bed. 

“How is she doing?” he asks quietly after a moment of silence.

Will shrugs, swallowing hard as he’s suddenly hit with how much he misses her already. “She’s okay. It’s been six weeks since the surgery and there weren’t any complications so should be back on her feet in a few days.”

“Good, that’s good.” He says earnestly, hesitating before he continues, “So...if she’s doing okay, why not--”

“Nurse,” Will interrupts, exhausted, “she can’t know. She’ll want to press charges, or at the very least, get us out of the house and we have _ no where else _to go. We can’t burn bridges with John right now.”

“But, Dex--”

“I can handle it, okay?”

“Will you stop being so dismissive for, like, a second?” Nursey raises his voice again. “Would it kill you to take this seriously?”

“I am taking this seriously!” Will shouts angrily. “There is nothing I take more seriously than the well-being of my family and I am _ not _going to make them suffer just because I can’t deal with getting slapped around a little.”

Nursey shakes his head sharply. “I can’t be the only one who knows about this. I can’t. Fuck, what if he breaks a bone; I mean, he could fucking kill you--”

Will’s blood runs cold. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Dex--” his voice cracks and he cuts himself off, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands, and Will is startled to realize just how upset he is over this. 

Part of him is touched by the concern, but the larger part of him that never wants to make Nursey sad will do anything to make him feel better. 

“I mean,” Will clears his throat roughly, “maybe I could tell my brother?”

Nursey lifts his head and sniffs, eyes shining. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, I could try?” 

Will feels sick, whether it’s because of the blatant lie, the thought of letting his brother know he’s been letting John hit him, or the lingering nausea from his earlier panic attack, he’s not sure. 

“Like, he’s really busy with work and stuff and he’s never home, but--”

“_ Please _,” Nursey breathes, raising a hand to wipe under his eyes, “Dex, please. Someone else has to know.”

The desperation in his voice has him nodding evenly, willing to do whatever it takes to remove the panic from his eyes. “Okay, Nursey, okay. I hear you, I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.” And then Nursey is hugging him. 

Will freezes for a moment before he reminds himself to hug back, tentatively wrapping his arms around his teammate, but when Nursey squeezes tighter and presses on a bruise, Will can’t hold back a hiss of pain. 

Nursey pulls back immediately, looking like he’s going to cry all over again.

Will hurries to reassure him, “I’m _ okay _, Nursey, it’s fine.”

“Don’t.” His reply is sharp. “Literally nothing about this is fine.”

They’re both quiet for a few moments before Nursey says, softer this time, “I’m so sorry you’ve been going through this alone.”

Now Will feels like he’s the one on the verge of tears. He didn’t allow himself to linger on it over the summer, but keeping this huge secret from his friends and the rest of his family weighed heavily on him. Hiding bruises and reminding himself to not flinch around his uncle when other people were present took all of his concentration, leaving him constantly exhausted. He knows it has to stay secret, but it’s so _ hard _. 

The knowledge that if it wasn’t him, it would be his sisters or his mother bearing the brunt of the abuse is what allows him to stay quiet, to keep his head down and deal with it, because yes it’s hard, but not as hard as it would be to watch his baby sisters get hit.

He clears his throat and manages to choke out a quiet, “Yeah, uh, me too.” He has to press his hands into the bruises on his thighs before he can continue. “Thank you for getting the guys to lay off earlier. That was, uh, getting intense.” 

Nursey gently presses their shoulders together. “Of course, man. S’not like you haven’t done the same for me a bunch of times. I love the team, but, you know, they can be a lot to deal with.”

Will huffs a quiet laugh. “For sure.”

His phone buzzes on the bedside table and he turns to check the notification, frowning when he sees the reminder for the team meeting that’s taking place in half an hour. He tilts his phone to show Nursey, who groans. 

“Think we’d get kicked off the team if we skipped?” he teases lightly. 

“Psh, no,” Will replies, “did you see the shitty backcheck on those freshman? They totally need us, dude.”

Nursey laughs. “You’re so right.” He stands up and straightens his hat, and Will admires the way he’s so easily able to slip his ‘chill’ back into place. “Want to walk over to Faber together?”

“Actually, um, I think I’m gonna call my brother first.”

The smile he gets in response makes his stomach hurt. “Awesome, dude. Proud of you.” 

Will smiles tightly. “Thanks, man. I’ll meet you over there.”

With a parting fist bump, Nursey walks out the door and pulls it shut behind him.

Will drops his head into his hands. 

He guides himself through one of the breathing exercises he learned over the summer, a result of googling ‘how to stop panic attacks’ obsessively into the night after having to make excuses to be alone one too many times. He’s read hundreds of articles on living with anxiety (not that’s what he has, that diagnosis is for people who are really sick, Will just overreacts sometimes) so he’s better at recovering from panic attacks, but he’s yet to figure out how to prevent them.

The breathing helps settle his stomach--apparently nausea _ is _common in people who have anxiety--but he still feels lightheaded and shaky, like he just had a near-death experience.

He wonders when opening up to his friends will stop feeling like the end of the world.

“Hey, Poindexter, hang back a second?”

Will frowns curiously at his captain, but nods, patting Chowder on the shoulder as he heads out of the locker room without him. He drops his bag back into his stall and takes a seat next to Holster, waiting for the senior to finish pulling his shoes on. 

They’re the last two in the locker room when he finally says, “So, Coach asked me to talk to you about your weight.”

Will freezes, caught off guard by the topic, going from pleasantly tired after a hard practice to panicked and on edge so fast it makes his head spin.

He manages to stutter out an, “Um, okay,” in response to Holster’s expectant expression, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Look, Dex, you know the drill, us d-men can’t afford to be lean at the start of the season, we’ve gotta bulk out to prepare for the inevitable weight loss that comes from grinding week after week. You can’t be post-season weight in the pre-season. It’s not gonna work.”

“I didn’t realize I was—“

Holster levels him with an exasperated galre. “Dude. You’re not just hockey player lean right now, you’re _ lean _lean.” He nudges him, stern expression softening slightly. “What gives?”

Will knows exactly ‘what gives’ but he can’t tell his captain about it because then he'll be obligated to talk to the coaches who might contact his family and then the gig will be up and they’ll be living in their car. 

“I dunno, man,” he shrugs, aiming for casual, “I’ve been training too hard I guess.”

Holster doesn’t buy it. “Nice try, kid, you know I’m literally next to you when we’re working out, right?”

Will makes a face because, shit. 

“You’re supposed to be gaining weight at this point in the season, but instead, you’re losing. Fast. At this rate, you’ll break down by January.” He nudges him again. “C’mon, man, you gotta give me something. The coaches are getting pissed.”

The color drains from Will’s face. “They’re not—you don’t think they would—“

“Take it easy, dude,” Holster squeezes his shoulder. “They’re not gonna kick you off the team. But we’re counting on you and Nurse to play serious minutes this year, you’ve gotta shape up to be first pair when Rans and I are gone, but you can’t hold your own out there if the _ forwards _have forty pounds on you.” He stares at Will’s face until he reluctantly makes eye contact and asks, “What’s going on, Dex?”

He immediately ducks his head, eyes burning at the sincerity in his voice. He really didn’t think anyone would notice, let alone _ care _the way his captain so clearly does, taking time out of his busy day to talk to him about this. He can’t waste any more of his time by lying through his teeth, so he decides to go with the half-truth.

“I guess my stomach has been kinda messed up recently; I’ve been having trouble eating enough.” 

Holster frowns. “Messed up how?”

Will makes a face again, he really doesn’t want to go into details, but, “I’m pretty nauseous, like, a majority of the time. S’ hard to eat when you feel like puking.”

“You been to the doctor about that?”

He shakes his head quickly. “Nah, it’s not that bad, it’s probably, like, stress or whatever.”

‘Or whatever’ being the constant, overwhelming anxiety that takes his breath away and leaves him dry heaving over the toilet at least once a week, but to admit to that would mean subjecting himself to a line of questioning he’s not ready for, so he leaves it at that. 

Holster doesn’t seem convinced. “Have you talked to the trainers?” 

“I’m not _ that _underweight, Holtzy,” he insists, fighting to keep from taking his anxious frustration out on his captain. 

“You’re thirty pounds less than what you weighed at the start of last season,” he deadpans.

Will snaps his jaw shut at that because, ouch, he didn’t know it was that bad. He carefully doesn’t mention that he’s almost two inches taller than he was last season. 

“You know what kind of caloric intake you’d need to gain thirty pounds in a few weeks?”

He shakes his head, stomach turning just thinking about it.

“Yeah, well, me neither. Make an appointment with the on-campus dietitian before next week and I won’t let the coaches rip you a new one for hiding a problem from them. Again.”

With a hard slap on the shoulder, Holster walks out of the locker room.

Will takes out his phone and looks up the number for Samwell’s Student Health Services before he can talk himself out of it. 

He does manage to put weight on before the regular season starts in mid-October, but it doesn’t come easily. He tries everything to stop throwing up so often; suggestions from the dietitian that involve eating bland foods, having smaller, more frequent meals, and sucking on ginger candies that end up increasing his nausea instead of decreasing it like they’re supposed to, in addition to tips that he finds on the internet like wrist acupuncture and lighting lavender candles. He only manages to prevent a vomiting spell maybe one out of every four episodes (can he really call them panic attacks when he hasn’t been diagnosed with anxiety?), but between that and the ‘bulking’ meal plan given to him by the dietitian he now sees twice a month, he gains enough to get his coaches and his captains off his back. For now. 

He knows he’s going to have to address his panic attacks--meltdowns, whatever--at some point, but as long as they’re not actively interfering with hockey, work, or school, he’s content to pretend like there’s nothing wrong. 

Every college student gets overwhelmed sometimes. He’s not special. 

  
  


One of the many perks of being neighbors with Derek Nurse, other than constantly catching sight of him sleep-rumpled and soft, is the easy access to an English tutor.

“I just don’t understand what this guy wants from me,” Will laments, hanging off the side of Nursey’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m following the rubric to a T.”

“Exactly,” Nursey replies, frowning at Will’s laptop screen as he reads his latest English 102 paper that got him a 75 instead of the A he was expecting. “You’re writing what you think he wants to hear.”

Will turns to blink at him. “Uh, yeah? Isn’t that the point?”

“No, dude,” Nursey laughs, not unkindly, “you have to write what you feel.”

He makes a face and Nursey laughs again. “Don’t worry about being _ right _, just focus on what you want to say.”

“Okay, but what if what I want to say is wrong?”

“It’s not necessarily wrong if it’s what you believe,” he says easily. “It depends on the context I guess; you have to defend your ideas well enough to explain why you believe what you’re writing.” At the look on Will’s face, Nursey nudges him gently. “Don’t sweat it too much. I had this professor last year, he’s a good guy.”

Will shakes his head, frowning because of course he’s going to sweat it. If he doesn’t stray from what the professor is asking for then there’s no chance his ideas will be torn apart and belittled. 

“It’s just…” Nursey starts hesitantly, “I think it sounds a little forced, you know? If you write with more authenticity, your grades will go up.”

Will sighs, frustrated. If only it were as easy as he makes it sound. Being honest and authentic comes easily to Nursey; Will sees it in the way he interacts with his friends, handing out physical affection and verbal declarations of love with an ease that says he’s been doing it his whole life, no care for how others will receive his affection. He constantly puts himself out there with a confidence that Will has never been able to replicate; he doesn’t seem to feel the fear of rejection that cripples Will’s own relationships, throwing himself into the world with the self-confidence of someone who has fought to become comfortable in their own skin. 

Not only does it make Will jealous, it makes him achingly attracted to his teammate. 

Confidence is hot. Derek is hot. And Will is suddenly, painfully aware of how _ not _hot his own lack of self-assurance is. 

He sits up and grabs his backpack off the floor. “Thanks, Nurse, I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, anytime, man.” Nursey watches him gather his books before saying, hesitantly, “You don’t have to, like, disappear as soon as we’re done with homework. I mean, if you want, we could just hang out? Like, uh, I have Netflix?”

“Oh, um,” Will stutters, surprised at the offer. They’ve been spending a lot of time together this semester, but it’s usually for a specific purpose: extra passing drills after practice, running together before dinner, tutoring session like these; but rarely do they hang out just to, well, hang out. 

“Sure,” he says after a pause that’s just this side of too long. “That’d be cool.” 

He lets his backpack thump back onto the floor and sits next to Nursey, leaning against the wall behind his bed, carefully not touching their shoulders together and definitely not freaking out. “You have a particular show in mind?”

“Yeah, actually--and don’t tell Jack he got me hooked on this show or I’ll never hear the end of it--but, _ The West Wing _ is really good and I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s basically about the White House staff trying to get their shit together enough to run a country.”

Will snorts. “That does sound like a Jack show.”

“It’s good, I promise. And totally relevant given our current political climate.”

They both make faces at that. It’s no secret that half of Maine’s electoral votes went to the Republican Party; Will doesn’t like to think about how many of his friends and family members contributed to those votes.

They settle in to watch the pilot, and Will quickly realizes that Nursey and Jack were right: it _ is _a good show. He’s so focused on the laptop on Nursey’s lap that he doesn’t notice when his teammate falls asleep, only glancing over at him 20 minutes into the second episode when he lets out a soft snore. 

Will decides to wake him for his own good; he’ll get a stiff neck from sleeping with his chin to his chest.

It definitely has nothing to do with the way Will can’t stop staring at him while he sleeps, admiring how the light from the window casts shadows over his peaceful face. Waking him is a selfless act.

“Hey, Nurse,” he mutters quietly, gently nudging his shoulder.

Immediately, his eyes fly open and he takes in a deep, gasping breath as he sits up so abruptly that his laptop falls to the floor.

“Oh, shit, fuck,” he swears, still breathless as he comes to his senses, blinking rapidly. He meets Will’s eyes, freezes, and groans. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” When he brings his hands up to roughly rub his face, Will can’t help but notice how hard they’re shaking.

“No sweat, dude,” Will shrugs and keeps his voice carefully light as he picks up Nursey’s laptop and places it on the bed next to him. “You didn’t snore. Much.” His tone is teasing, but Nursey doesn’t even crack a smile, instead blowing out a long breath and slumping against the wall.

“You alright?” Will asks carefully.

“Fine,” he replies, a clipped, careful sound.

Will snorts before he can stop himself. “Convincing.” 

This time Nursey’s lips twitch, so Will presses further. “Seriously, what’s up?”

“It’s nothing,” he sighs.

Will might just let it go, except for the way that Nursey has yet to stop shaking, though he’s obviously trying to control it, and he startled awake so violently that something has to be wrong.

And the more Will thinks about it, the more he realizes something has _ been _ wrong with his teammate for weeks, now. He’s been keeping up with his commitments to the team--he always does—but the carefree energy he associates with Nursey has been missing. He just seems more worn out these days, the bags under his eyes a little darker, and while it’s not uncommon for college students to be overwhelmed and lose sleep around midterm season, he can’t help but think there’s something else going on.

“You been sleeping okay?” he tries. 

Nursey shrugs, but otherwise says nothing, gaze downturned, wringing his hands together. Will recognizes this as a sign that he’s about to say something serious, so he stays quiet and waits him out.

“I think, um,” Nursey whispers eventually, clearing his throat so the rest of his sentence comes out louder, “I don’t think my meds are working for me anymore.”

His eyes flick up to meet Will’s briefly and he must see the confusion there because he elaborates, “Ah, I take meds for anxiety and depression—have been since I was, like, thirteen—and I think I have to find a new combination. Again.” He lets out a defeated breath, studying his nails. “I haven’t been sleeping despite being exhausted literally all the time and I’m having trouble focusing in class.” His humorless laugh makes Will’s stomach clench. “If my grades keep slipping, my parents are gonna make me take time off hockey.”

Will sucks in a breath. “Nurse…”

“I know, man, I know. Just when we’re starting to click on the ice and you’ve been racking up all those points recently—“

“Fuck, Nursey, I don’t care about my _ stats, _ I care about _ you _.” It comes out desperate and raw and way too honest, but Will doesn’t open his mouth to immediately take it back.

Nursey is being brave. Will can be brave, too.

Nursey swallows audibly and mumbles, “Dex…”

“I mean it. If you have to take time off hockey, yeah, that’d suck, but--” he shakes his head sharply. “Whatever it takes for you to start feeling better.”

“Losing hockey would make me feel _ worse _,” he insists sadly. “It’s what gets me out of bed when my depression is bad and it keeps me out of my head when I’m otherwise too anxious to function, but if I keep fucking falling asleep in class--”

“Nursey,” Will interrupts quietly, reaching out to squeeze his arm, “it’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do. I know everything.”

“Fuck off, Poindexter.” He laughs wetly, the sound loosening something in Will’s chest. 

He starts wringing his hands again, so Will waits. 

“I just--I can’t _ fucking _ sleep when I’m like this, especially with my roommate coming and going all day. He’s chill and whatever, but I’m already so fucking paranoid twenty-four fuckin’ seven so whenever I start falling asleep I feel like he’s _ watching _ me which is stupid as fuck because I know he’s in class but my hell brain starts convincing me that he left class and he’s right there and, like, C told me I could crash in his room whenever but then I feel like I’m in the way of him and Farms, not to mention whenever I’m at the Haus, Bitty gives me those concerned eyes and I have to put on this whole fucking show so he doesn’t rat me out to the coaches and-- _ fuck _,” he shouts, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. His voice is soft and sad when he breathes, “I’m just so fucking tired, man.” 

Will starts to reach out on instinct in response to his distress, but pauses, remembering to ask, “Can I--do you want a hug?”

He nods silently, folding himself into Will’s arms and breathing harshly into his sweatshirt. Will hooks his chin over top of his head and rubs his hand up and down his back, saying nothing, hoping his body is conveying the support that he wants to provide.

They stay like this for several moments before Nursey eventually pulls back, wrapping his arms around his legs and laying his cheek on his arm. He gives Will a sheepish smile.

“Sorry.”

Will makes a face and scoots closer to Nursey so he can keep his arm wrapped around his shoulders. “For what?”

“That wasn’t very chill of me.”

He snorts. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, dude, but I’ve never been chill a day in my life.”

That startles a laugh out of Nursey, who gives Will a fondly exasperated expression. “Yeah, I know. S’ part of your charm.”

Will can feel himself blushing, but he soldiers on, the vulnerability that his friend is displaying giving him the confidence to start, “So, um, I have a single.” 

At Nursey’s curious frown he continues, “I’m not in my room a lot because of work, so, you know, I wouldn’t mind if you needed to crash there sometimes.”

He looks carefully hopeful. “For real?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like you’d be bothering me, and if it means you can get some more sleep,” he shrugs, “what’s mine is yours. Just, you know, text me when you’ll be here so I don’t barge into the room and wake you up.”

What he really means is ‘text me when you’re here so I can be far away from here’ because the last thing he needs is the mental image of Nursey lying relaxed and peaceful in his bed. 

“_ Dude _,” Nursey breathes, and it’s soft, awed, “that’s so fucking nice of you.”

Will shoves him lightly to hide how emotional he is right now. “Don’t act so surprised, Nurse. I can be nice.”

“No, hey, of course you can,” he says with a frown, “I just mean--I really appreciate this, like, you have no idea.”

“Don’t mention it, dude.” He rolls off Nursey’s bed, needing to put some distance between them because there’s a large part of his brain that never wants to let him go. “I’ll go grab my spare key for you.”

A moment later when he places the key into Nursey’s outstretched hand, the touch lingers, and Nursey’s eyes soften as he says, “Thank you for this, Dex.”

His voice is warm and muted when he replies, “Of course.”

Will comes to regret this exchange only three weeks later. 

He’s sitting on the floor in his room, back pressed against his bed, head between his knees, and he’s dying.

_ No, _ he tells himself sternly, _ you’re not dying. You know what this is. _

Logically, he knows he’s going to be fine. He lost count of the amount of panic attacks he’s had since his first one last year; he’s been through this many times before.

But, even still, the fear takes him by surprise every time, the overwhelming panic of not being able to draw a full breath compounds the anxiety until he’s gasping and shaking, convinced that he’s going to die right here, right now.

He fights his way through a breathing exercise, _ in for six, hold for four, out for eight, repeat, _until he can hold his phone without his violent trembling sending it flying, but then hesitates, staring at his contact list. 

Today is Thursday, December 12th, and the team has an important home game against Cornell tomorrow, he can’t afford to show up to morning skate weak and shaky because he was up vomiting through the night for the third time this week. He just doesn’t want to bother Chowder the night before a big game; he knows it won’t mess with any of his pre-game rituals--those don’t start until twelve hours before the game--but he shouldn’t need the company tonight. He’s gotten through this alone dozens of times.

But...he’s never had three panic attacks in the span of one week, and, shit, he’s exhausted. He knows that Chowder won’t judge him and that he’ll understand if Will is unable to answer all of his questions right now so, really, there’s nothing stopping him from making the call. 

Except for the fact that he’s still struggling to draw a deep breath and there’s no way to make this a casual request for company when he’s literally shaking apart on his bedroom floor. 

He fists a hand in his hair, and taps on Chowder’s contact.

“Hey, Dex!” he crows over the phone, his voice alone making Will’s chest feel more open. “What’s up?”

“Hey, uh, are you busy right now?” 

“I’m on my way to Caitlin’s,” he replies, and Will’s stomach drops. When he doesn’t reply right away, C asks, “Why? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, uh,” he swallows roughly when his breath gets caught in his throat, “nevermind, I’ll just--”

“Dex, hey,” his voice is harder now. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m kinda, um--” his breaths are getting fast again. Shit. “It’s fine, I just--I can’t--”

“Fuck, are you having a panic attack right now?”

He shakes his head frantically before remembering that Chowder can’t see him. “No, I’m just--it’s fine, I can deal--”

He talks right over him. “I’m too far so I’m sending Nursey over there, okay, Dex?”

“No, no,” Will coughs around a gasp, desperate to get the words out because Nursey _ can’t _see him like this, “don’t--don’t bother him, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, that’s why you called, and I’m really glad you did,” he insists. “I’m texting Nursey right now.”

“C--” Will has to drop his head between his knees again, so he knows his quick breaths are muffled over the phone. 

Chowder is still talking calmly to him.

“Nursey is coming over right now, Dex. Is your door open?”

He can’t find the breath to tell him that it’s locked, startling when there’s a loud knock at the door.

“Yo, Dex,” Nursey calls after a moment, “let me in.”

Over the phone, Chowder asks, “You still with me, Dex? Can you open the door for Nursey?”

He makes a desperate sound, trying to convey just how little he wants to let his teammate in, even if he was capable of doing so. That’s when he remembers Nursey has his key. 

He enters the room slowly, Will can tell by the way he blocks the light from the hall, but when he catches sight of him curled up on the floor, he swears softly and is by his side in an instant. 

“Hey, can I touch you, Dex?”

Still unable to answer, he stays silent, shuddering breaths into the space between his knees, so when Nursey puts an unexpected hand on his arm, he can’t help the way he flinches back violently, slamming himself against his bed frame and letting out a panicked whimper. 

“Okay, okay, no touching, I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “I’m just gonna reach over here and grab your phone so I can talk to C, alright?”

He says nothing, and Nursey picks up his phone.

“Hey, man. Yeah, I got him. I’ll keep you updated. Thanks.” 

He turns his attention back to Will, speaking in a calm voice. “Okay, Dex, I know this feels scary, but you’re going to be fine. Focus on your breath. You can get through this.”

There a few moments of silence before a soothing, low tone fills the room. Will’s curiosity breaks through the panic, so he’s able to follow Nursey’s instructions to “breathe in with the high note, breathe out with the low,” only tripping up and stuttering out a breathy, “fuck”, twice before he’s finally in control of his lungs again. 

He sits up fully and slams his head back against his bedframe, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and waiting for the feeling to come back to his toes.

“You can shut that off, now,” he croaks, gesturing with his chin to Nursey’s phone that’s sitting on the floor. When the room is silent once again, he drops his hands and meets his friend’s eyes, unsurprised to see worry and uncertainty there. 

“Hi,” he says around a self-deprecating huff of laughter. 

Nursey humors him with a quick smile, face immediately settling back to ‘concern mode’, an expression usually reserved for Bitty’s questionable homework decisions and Chowder’s tendency to take losses personally. “Hey. Can I get you some water?”

Will nods, gesturing vaguely to the mini fridge in the corner of his room, knowing the water will make it suck less when he inevitably vomits. 

He accepts the bottle with a soft, “thanks”, and takes small sips, the tendrils of nausea already creeping around his stomach. 

When he looks up again, Nursey asks, “What do you need right now?”

Will sighs, placing the bottle of water on the floor and starts to shift to his knees. “Right now, I need to throw up.”

Nursey starts reaching out to help Will stand, but pauses. “Wait, really?”

“Really.” 

He uses Nursey’s half-outstretched arm to pull himself up, grateful for the way his teammate steadys him when his knees try to buckle, but shrugs him off as soon as he can. He pulls open his door, leaving it open behind him, and stumbles down the hall to the men’s room, taking a moment to wish he had time to put shoes on before he’s shoving his way into the first open stall and leaning over the toilet. 

It’s over quickly--he hasn’t eaten much this week, the anxiety filling his stomach more days than not---but it still hurts, and he has to take a moment to breathe with his hands on his knees before he can stand back up and flush. He exits the stall and startles hard when he notices Nursey standing by the sinks, mortified that he just heard him getting sick. 

He keeps his head down while he washes his hands and rinses out his mouth, shouldering through the doorway and back toward his room without so much as looking at his teammate. He doesn’t close his door on him no matter how much he wants to.

“Does that happen often?” Nursey asks quietly once they’re both sitting on the edge of his bed.

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Kinda.”

“Do you puke every time?” And Nursey, for all that he lives to chirp Will, doesn’t even sound grossed out, just sympathetic.

“Nah, like, thirty percent of the time.”

“And how often is that?”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “Maybe three, four times a month.”

“Fuck, dude.” He starts to reach an arm out as if to put it around his shoulders, but hesitates before dropping it altogether. 

Will doesn’t know how to tell him he wants the contact, so he stays silent. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t know you were struggling.” When Nursey continues, there’s something off about his voice. “But, you know, I wouldn’t have judged you if you told me earlier.”

Will frowns, surprised to see his expression has closed off. 

“Like, I know you’re a private person, but I literally poured my heart out to you about all my mental health bullshit, and you couldn’t have let me know that you got where I was coming from?”

He blinks, thrown by the turn this conversation has taken. “What? Nurse, I don’t--”

“No, it’s fine, man, it’s whatever,” he insists in that ‘fake chill’ voice that Will hates, “I just didn’t realize the trust doesn’t go both ways.”

“Hey, of course I trust you, man,” he hurries to reassure him, brain struggling to keep up through the muddled aftermath of his panic attack. “What are you saying?”

“Look, you don’t owe me an explanation, but it would’ve been nice to know that you have anxiety, too." His voice is quietly defeated. "Would’ve made me feel less alone.”

“What?” He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, but it just makes him dizzier. “Nursey, I don’t have Generalized Anxiety Disorder,” he enunciates the name clearly so he doesn't mess it up. "I just freak out sometimes. It's not, like, an illness."

Nursey's face hardens, closing off even further. “Right, of course not.” He rises to his feet, a careful air of indifference about him, and turns for the door. “I’ll see you later, man.”

“Wait, Nursey, just--hang on a minute,” he pleads breathlessly, reaching out with the hand not braced against his knee because Nursey _can't _leave right now, not when there's something clearly off between them. “What are you--what did I say?”

“Nothing, Dex,” he sighs. “You didn’t say _ anything _.”

There’s something there, something in the way Nursey said that, but Will can’t figure it out, fear starting to cloud his thoughts again. 

Over his shoulder, Nursey tosses a quick, “Text me if you need anything, alright?”

Before he can find the breath to respond, Nursey walks out the door, locking it behind him. 

What the _fuck _just happened?

Is he...is Nursey upset that they don't share the same experience? Does he regret confessing his problems to Will? Is he embarrassed?

That doesn't make sense; he just watched Will have a breakdown, there's no reason for _Nursey_ to be embarrassed.

Maybe he's sad he doesn't have someone to relate to about having anxiety? Will can't imagine what it's like for him, to have two mental illnesses he's battling on a daily basis, and he can only guess how lonely it must feel when your friends don't get it. But it's not like he can turn his tendency to overreact into an anxiety disorder. Nursey of all people would know that's not how this works.

So why the hell did he look so sad?

When Chowder texts him moments later, asking if he’s doing okay, he doesn’t hesitate this time before telling him the truth. 

_ Really not okay and really need a friend. Can you come over? _

The immediate reply: _ got your back be there in ten _ causes tears of gratitude to start rolling down his cheeks.

He tells himself he’s only crying because he’s so grateful for Chowder’s friendship. It has nothing to do with the hurt disappointment that was on Nursey’s face when he walked away. He’s not crying over Nursey. 

He’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and in this episode, Dex holds on to the misguided belief that he's neurotypical 
> 
> my main character flaw is posting first drafts of chapters and then getting frustrated when they don't read like a finished product
> 
> me: plot done. post now.  
also me: dude you need to EDIT this nonsense  
me: need validation  
also me: you'll get more validation if you edit-  
me: COMMENTS
> 
> Sorry for making Dex cry in literally every chapter, things will get better soon, I swear.  
Thanks for sticking around, y'all <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all were really gonna let me call WilLIAM’s brother Liam, huh? His name is Luke now.
> 
> Remember when I said things would get better after the last chapter?
> 
> Yeah, I lied.
> 
> See end notes for slightly spoilery trigger warnings.

Nursey has been avoiding him for three days (not like he’s been counting) when Will walks into his dorm after his English final to find him fast asleep in his bed. 

He’s so surprised that he forgets to be quiet, slamming the door against the wall and letting his backpack hit the floor with a loud thump. 

Nursey wakes slowly, a stark contrast to the last time Will interrupted his sleep, turning to frown at the doorway, squinting at the light from the hall before he seems to realize where he is and clears his throat.

“Hey.” 

“Uh, hey, man,” Will stutters, closing the door behind him, “sorry for waking you.”

“It’s chill,” he replies, untangling himself from Will’s blankets and sounding definitively un-chill, “sorry I didn’t text you, I just, ah--”

“It’s chill,” Will assures him with a soft smile, testing the waters. “I meant it when I said you could crash here whenever. Got your back, right?”

He lets out a relieved breath when Nursey smiles back. Okay, so he probably doesn’t hate him. 

He allows the silence to stretch on for a few moments, stacking his books on his desk and stradling the wooden desk chair, chin resting on his arms before asking, casually, “You want to talk about it?”

Nursey makes a face. “Talk about what?”

“I mean, I’m guessing you’re not here because you’re having a _ good _day.”

He huffs a laugh and nods as he pushes his hair out of his face, and Will feels a little thrill that he can read him so well. 

“Yeah, no, I’m not having a good day, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

He can’t help but be a little stung by that response, though he recognizes it’s unjustified. Nursey doesn’t owe him an explanation about anything; just because he doesn’t want to spill his guts right now doesn’t mean the fragile trust they’ve cultivated over the last year is gone. 

The fact that they’ve talked about nothing but hockey in nearly a week probably means that trust is gone. 

“Do _ you _want to talk about it?” Nursey offers.

Now it’s Will’s turn to make a face and ask, “About what?”

“Heard you ralphing in the bathroom last night,” he reports cooly, sitting up and meeting his eyes. 

Will swears under his breath. He thought he’d escaped notice. 

“What was that about?”

“Nothing,” he says, hating how quiet and ashamed he sounds. 

“Another panic attack?”

He stays quiet. Nursey doesn’t need him to confirm what he already knows. 

“How many is that this week?”

Will grits his teeth in response to his accusatory tone; he didn’t expect an intervention in his own room, and the last time they had this conversation, Nursey bolted and didn’t talk to him for several days. 

“It’s finals week, and then I’m home for twelve days,” he bites out. “Obviously, I’m a little stressed.”

“Fucking Christ, Poindexter,” Nursey growls, exasperated. “Puking your guts out three times a week is more than ‘a little stressed’.”

“Yeah, well,” he snaps, unsure of how to express that this has become his new normal without freaking out his teammate because, yeah, it’s normal for him, but he’s starting to realize just how _ abnormal _ it is to, well, everyone else. 

Nursey slides to the end of the bed, puts his hands on his thighs, and considers him with a hard expression. Something in his face makes Will’s stomach feel uneasy.

“You know,” Nursey starts, softer now, “you don’t have to feel like this all the time.”

He bristles in response. “If I could stop it, don’t you think I would?”

“No, hey,” his voice is still impossibly gentle and, god, what has Will done to deserve that kind of treatment? “I don’t mean that you should just be able to turn off the anxiety--don’t look at me like that, Dex,” he interjects when Will frowns at the word, “I meant that there are steps you can take to start feeling better than you have been.”

Will lets his forehead rest on his crossed arms when he mumbles, “I don’t have anxiety, Nursey.”

“Dex--”

“I haven’t been diagnosed with anxiety,” he rectifies, because he is _ not _going to be one of those people who self-diagnoses a mental illness and pretends they know what it’s like to be in a war with their brain. Will is starting to come to terms with the fact that he needs help, but he’s not a doctor.

He says as much to Nursey, who scoffs.

“Oh, so now mental illnesses are worthy of seeing a doctor?”

Will lifts his head with a confused frown and blinks at his teammate. “Huh?”

“I dunno, man, last week you seemed to think anxiety was just a figment of my imagination.”

“What the fuck? I never said that.”

“You sure as hell implied it.”

Will stares at him in disbelief. “Are you telling me that I said something stupid when I was trying to recover from a panic attack and couldn’t think straight?”

Nursey has the sense to look chagrined. 

“Is _ that _ why you were pissed at me this week?”

He ducks his head and says nothing.

“Fuck, dude,” Will runs his hands through his hair, exasperated, “next time, please just tell me when I do something to piss you off, okay? I hate when you don’t talk to me.”

He nods apologetically with a grimace and says, “Yeah, that wasn’t cool. I know you’re dealing with your own shit, it’s just--that’s a sore spot for me and I got defensive. I’m sorry, Dex.” He reaches out to nudge Will’s arm and adds, “But that goes for you too; communication is a two-way street, alright?”

Letting out a relieved sigh, he agrees, “Alright.” After a pause, he continues, desperate to ease this misunderstanding that he didn’t know existed, “Look, man, I’m not questioning the fact that anxiety is real. I just don’t think my problems are that bad.”

Nursey looks sad again. “How bad are you willing to let things get before you ask for help?”

The question hits Dex like a punch in the stomach and he realizes he doesn’t have an answer. He’s gotten used to feeling anxious all the time; panic attacks feel like an inevitable conclusion to his worst days; he knows to take advantage of the good ones by loading up on calories to replace what he’s missing when his stomach is tied in knots. The nervousness has become part of his daily routine the same way that hockey and classes are; he expects it. 

So to hear Nursey say that it’s possible to live without it, that it’s a real problem that can be, if not solved, than improved, makes him feel...weird. 

“I dunno… how bad did things get for you?” Will regrets the question as soon as it comes out of his mouth because of the way Nursey freezes.

There’s a tense pause before he replies, clipped, “You don’t want me to answer that.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath. “Nursey…”

“Dex, please. You don’t have to be in a crisis to get help.”

He has to swallow while he processes the fact that _ Nursey _ was in a crisis before he got help, and a new problem occurs to him.

“All of the insurance bills go through John, Nursey, I can’t--”

“So? Don’t use your insurance.”

“And what, pay out of pocket?”

Nursey gives him an expression that reads, ‘obviously’ and Will fights to keep a level head.

“Do you have _ any _ idea what that would cost?”

His voice is carefully insistent. “You need to see a doctor, Dex.”

“What I _ need _ is to pay rent.”

Nursey takes a breath like he’s set to argue, but then lets it out slowly and sadly shakes his head. “It’s so fucked that you have to choose.”

He laughs, bitter. “Tell me about it.”

After a pause, Nursey sits up abruptly and says, “Hey, what about the school’s health insurance? Wouldn’t that all be under your name?”

Will clamps down the hope bubbling in his chest because, “That would mean asking John to take me off of his plan and going through all that paperwork—“

“I can help you get set up,” he offers quickly; the enthusiasm he has for helping him makes Will’s chest feel funny. “Between the two of us—and I can get my dad to help too if you want—it shouldn’t take long. Your scholarships will cover it, right?”

“Yeah, but…” he trails off. 

He used the refund from last year’s financial aid awards to pay for repairs on his mom’s car. He really needs the extra two grand for things other than health insurance, but he’s not going to say anything to wipe the eagerness off his face.

“And then,” Nursey continues excitedly, “once it’s all set up, you can make an appointment right on campus.”

“Nursey, that’s—“ he halts his thanks, processing the words. “You mean, like, with a shrin—uh, therapist?”

His voice is gentle and devoid of judgement when he says, “I think it’s a good idea.”

Will picks at his fingers, and breathes. “I don’t know, man.”

Nursey puts a hand on his arm and squeezes hard. “I’d go with you, I mean, if you wanted me to.”

He swallows several times, until he can trust his voice to come out evenly when he replies, “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“I got your back, Dex.”

Will covers Nursey’s hand with his own and squeezes. “Thanks, Derek.”

  
  
  


Will _ loves _hockey. 

His sophomore season with the Wellies marks his twelfth year in the sport, but every day he finds something new to work on, something to challenge him, something to succeed at. He enjoys working on his skills in practice, but what he really craves is the adrenaline of a game; the fast-paced plays and physicality always makes his veins thrum, makes him feel alive.

The thirty-four points he has at just over the halfway mark of the season also make him feel pretty good, but he tries not to think about that.

It’s hard to ignore the nine game point streak when his teammates bring it up every day, and when he’s forced to do press after games it’s all the media wants to talk about. He’s not all that superstitious—not compared to the average hockey player, anyway—but he still doesn’t want to jinx himself. The less he pays attention to the point streak, the less likely he is to blow it.

Will understands the game, he knows points aren’t everything, but when your life is falling apart around you and the only good thing you have going is a point streak, well, it starts to feel like everything.

Winter break was about as awful as Will expected it to be. He was only home for two weeks, but that was more than enough time for Uncle John to remind him exactly why he was an anxious mess leading up to the holidays. 

It started when he pulled into the driveway at noon, three days before Christmas Eve. Amanda and Jess were at school, his mother was at work, and Luke wasn’t due home until the next day, which left Will alone with John for a few hours. 

It took him ten minutes to convince himself to get out of his truck. 

He has just enough time to put his bags down in his room, use the bathroom, and eat a quick lunch before John comes in from the garage, grease-stained towel in his hands and cheap beer on his breath. 

“Hey, Uncle John,” he starts carefully, trying to gauge his mood. “How are you?”

“Billy,” comes the short, clipped reply. He doesn’t look at him as he crosses the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge. 

Will swallows roughly. 

John turns and takes a long pull of beer, an erie sort of calmness to him as he considers Will who is standing against the wall and wishing he could disappear. 

The seconds of tense silence tick by until all Will can focus on is the pounding of blood in his ears. He needs to get out of here.

He gestures vaguely toward his room. “I’m just gonna--”

John slams his bottle onto the table, and the words die in Will’s throat. 

“The hell is wrong with you?” He spits, face twisted in disgust. 

Will freezes, alarms going off in his head because does he know? He can’t know. How would he know?

He manages to stutter out a quiet, “I’m sorry?”

“You better be,” John scoffs. “Leavin’ your family all alone up here to go to that snowflake school and ya’ can’t even make the grade!”

Through the relief, confusion furrows his brow. “Final grades aren’t even out, yet, what are you--”

“I see them marks on your tests and they ain’t what they need to be, boy. You got something to say about that?”

“How do--”

“I’m askin’ the questions!” John roars, picking up his bottle and pointing it at Will’s face. “I can log into those fancy systems whenever I please so don’t think I haven’t noticed you failin’ that English class. Wasting all that money, and for what?”

Will hurries to defend himself because, “The class was really hard, and I’m so busy with work and hockey--”

“How are you gonna call what that fairy team does ‘hockey’?”

Through gritted teeth, Will snaps, “We made it to the finals last year.” 

John shoves him against the wall, beer bottle pressed against his throat. “You better watch your tone with me, son,” he growls lowly, the threat of violence on the tip of his tongue.

Will ignores the fear and refuses to break eye contact. 

After a few tense moments, John steps back, disgust replacing the anger in his eyes. “Can’t pass a fuckin’ English class? You speak English! Your father didn’t raise no retard!”

Will snaps his jaw shut to prevent the automatic retort he wants to spit out, but John must notice the belligerence in his eyes. 

“What is it, Billy? Don’t like thinkin’ about how angry your daddy would be if he knew you were failin’ your classes?” A sick smirk spreads across his face.”Well, I’m just fillin’ his shoes.

Will steps forward, eyes murderous, and spits, “You could _ never. _”

John swings. 

Will ducks the first punch, but lets him connect with his arm when he raises it to block his face, knowing the sooner John gets it out of his system, the sooner it will be over. 

By the time that happens, Will’s lip is bleeding all over his shirt. 

When John storms back out to the garage, Will stumbles back into the bathroom and cleans himself up numbly, categorizing the bruises and imagining the kind of hockey injuries that would create them so that when his family gets home, he’ll be ready with a story to explain the obviously fresh wounds. 

Then he runs around his neighborhood until his mom gets off work, only returning to the house when she’s there to make it feel like home. 

The remaining eleven days of break pass in a blur of family dinners, driving his sisters around town, skating on the pond with his brother, and avoiding his uncle at all costs. He doesn’t let the man get him alone for the rest of his time at home, which means he’s able to return to campus with no more than a few fading bruises.

Nursey notices, of course he does, but Will won’t let him bring it up, claiming the situation is under control and talking about it will only make it worse. 

That’s the opposite of the truth, of course, but if Will’s been succeeding at anything recently it’s putting on a show that’s convincing everyone things are okay when they are really, really not. 

The only thing that remains okay is hockey.

So, when the Wellies are down two nothing at the halfway point of the second period in their first game against Brown, Will is relentless.

He puts one hundred percent into every shift, every game, but situations like these are different. They need to get on the board, and soon, or the morale on the bench will drop too low to salvage the game and he puts that burden on his shoulders because if he doesn’t, who will? 

Will and Nursey are playing first line minutes tonight--Ransom tweaked his wrist in practice yesterday and can only handle shorter shifts--and Will fully intends on taking advantage of the extra ice time by getting pucks to the net. 

He and his partner are electric tonight and while they’ve contributed to twelve of the teams fifteen chances for, it’s not reflected on the scoreboard, and Will is getting restless. 

“Hey,” Nursey knocks their shoulders together when they’re back on the bench after another unproductive shift, “we got this, yeah?”

His brow is furrowed, and his voice is a little cautious, so Will forces an easy smile and taps him with his stick.

“Fuck yeah.”

Moments later, coach hollers their names again and they slide back over the boards, catching the Bears in the middle of a change, so when Will receives the puck from Bitty, he shouts, “Skate!” and hears the sounds of his team on his flanks as he streaks up the ice and breaks into the offensive zone. He passes to Nurse and sets himself up at the blue line as the opposing team scrambles to get back in position. They flock to Samwell’s forwards who are surrounding the net, leaving Will wide open and he doesn’t even have to smack his stick against the ice, Nursey is already passing to him.

He doesn’t look at the puck as it slides toward his tape, knowing the pass is perfect before it comes. He keeps his head up, eyes boring down the open lane in front of him, and one-times it at the net with everything he has, feeling in his bones that the shot is as hard as he could’ve managed. 

Time slows as a Brown defenseman inadvertently steps into the path of the puck and has no time to protect himself. Will looks on in horror as it hits him on the side of the head instead of sailing neatly into the net like it was supposed to. 

Number seventy drops to the ice.

The play is blown dead immediately, players shouting and waving their hands toward the benches, but both teams’ trainers are already running across the ice, towels in hand. They crouch at the head of the down player, leaning in and talking calmly to him, but it doesn’t matter because he hasn’t moved, he hasn’t made a sound, and his head is bleeding onto the ice.

Will feels sick.

He’s grateful for the way that the players around him who aren’t crouched over their teammate have dropped to one knee, because his own give out and he slumps heavily to the ice, the guilt and panic making him dizzy. 

Nursey skates over and puts a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing hard.

“Breathe, Dex,” he commands quietly, easily heard thanks to the hush that has fallen over the Brown arena. 

Will feels sicker. He doesn’t deserve to have Nursey standing here comforting him when he knocked another player unconscious—

“It’s not your fault.” Nursey’s voice is louder, now. Composed. “It was an accident. He’s going to be fine.”

Will finds the breath to choke out, “You don’t know that.” 

“He’s moving and he’s breathing,” he notes evenly. “He’ll be fine.” 

Will shakes his head because he wants to believe him, he does, but he can’t help but think he just ended this guy’s hockey career. He recognizes the name on the back of the jersey, Noles is a sophomore like him, and while he definitely wasn’t going pro, he had at least two more years of college hockey to play. What if Will just took that away from him? He could’ve ruined this guy’s whole life with one poorly timed shot—

“Dex, c’mon, man.”

He blinks and realizes Nursey is pulling him to his feet and back toward the Samwell bench. He digs his edges into the ice.

“No, I have to see if he’s okay.”

“We’ll get the report later, don’t torture yourself by watching.”

He shrugs him off roughly and skates back towards the net, standing helpless as the medics role the stretcher onto the ice. 

He loses a bit of time after that.

Noles gets wheeled off the ice, there are stick taps and cheers from the crowd. The game continues, or at least it must, because before Will knows it, the horn is blowing to signal the end of the second period and the guys are filing back into the locker room. 

He unties his skates and removes his jersey in a daze, only half-listening to the coaches and captains bark out instructions for the third period. As soon as they’re done with their speeches, Will bolts from the locker room, desperate for some space to attempt to loosen the vice around his lungs, to clear his head. 

He’s halfway down the hall to the exit when he hears footsteps running behind him. 

“Dex, wait up!” 

He stops in his tracks before he makes the decision to do so because that’s Nursey calling after him, Nursey who definitely recognizes how much of a mess he is right now and interrupted his very specific intermission routine to come check on him.

He doesn’t know what Nursey sees on his face when he turns to look at him, but by the way his expression goes from cautiously concerned to soft and sad, it’s nothing good. He doesn’t say anything as he steps forward and pulls him in for a tight hug. 

Will melts against him, fisting his hands in his damp under armor and breathing harshly against his neck, collapsing under the weight of the guilt, fear, and, above all else, gratitude for his friend who always seems to know what he needs. 

They embrace silently for several moments before Will attempts to voice the anxiety swirling around his head. 

“He could be permanently injured; his hockey career could be over.”

“Or he could be fine,” Nursey counters calmly.

“He took a slapshot to the _ head _, he was unconscious and bleeding--” he cuts himself off, swearing softly when his chest tightens and it hurts to breathe. 

Nursey presses their bodies more firmly together and shushes him softly. “Just breathe, Dexy; it’s gonna be okay.”

He shakes his head, burying his face in Nursey’s shoulder, and tries to hold back the sobs threatening to crawl up his throat, letting his teammate’s quiet reassurances wash over him. 

As he all but holds him together, Nursey is saying exactly what Will needs to hear, things like: “injuries are part of hockey”, “you wouldn’t blame the other guy if you got hurt blocking a shot”, and “it was an accident”. 

Will is still working on believing him when Ransom comes around the corner and spots them clinging to each other. 

He doesn’t mean to make a noise of protest when Nursey drops his arms and steps back, but he’s too unsettled to feel embarrassed about how relieved he is when Nursey throws an arm back around his shoulders as they turn to face their captain. 

Ransom takes one look at Will and declares, “I’m telling coach to scratch you from the rest of the game.”

Will’s stomach drops. “Rans, you can’t--”

“You look like hell, Poindexter. You’re not going back out there.”

He grabs Nursey’s arm in a vice grip, turning to look at him desperately because someone _ has to _ understand that he can’t not play. He’s already been such a fuck up, he _ needs _to go back out there and play solid hockey because what the hell else does he have without that?

Nursey meets his gaze carefully, calculating, before turning back to Ransom and saying, “He’s good to play.”

He frowns, eyes shifting from Nurse, to Will, back to Nurse, and asks, “You sure? Because I’m not letting him on the ice unless he’s one hundred percent.”

Nursey nods sharply. “I’m sure.”

He hesitates, but eventually sighs and says, “Alright. Fine. You better not be lying to me or you’re both skating suicides for the rest of your lives.”

Nursey’s lips twitch. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Ransom rolls his eyes and heads back to the locker room, tossing a quick, “Ten minutes ‘til ice time,” over his shoulder. 

Will lets out a long breath and turns to his partner. “Nursey, thank you--”

“Are you good to play?” he interrupts sharply, eyes intense. 

“I’m--” he swallows hard, sounding more composed than he feels when he responds, “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You better be. If your head isn’t in the game, you could get seriously hurt out there.”

Will silently wonders why that would be such a bad thing, but quickly banishes the thought from his head before it can show on his face. 

“I mean it, dude. Don’t make me regret vouching for you.”

“I won’t,” he insists resolutely, “I can do this.”

Nursey’s face is soft when he replies, “I know you can.” He bumps their shoulders together and smiles, though it’s a little strained. “C’mon. Let’s go extend that point streak.”

“_ Nurse, _” Will groans, jogging off to find a piece of wood to knock on, stifling a smile at the sound of his partner laughing behind him.

It isn’t until they’re standing at the entrance of the tunnel ready to get back on the ice that the reality of what happened just twenty minutes ago hits him like a truck once again.

Nursey is there, he’s always right there, and presses their helmets together. 

“Head in the game, Dex. Got your back, right?”

On reflex, in a way that’s become so automatic between the two of them, Will replies, “Got your back,” and they step out onto the ice in synch. 

  
  


He’s battling for the puck against the boards in his own zone, thirteen minutes left in the third, the game tied at two (no thanks to Will) when one of the Brown forwards leans in and growls, “Thanks for sending Noley to the ICU,” and Will’s heart stops. 

He somehow wins the puck because there it is on his stick, but the forward is describing his injury in gruesome detail and Will _ can’t breathe _ so he flings the puck across the ice to Nursey who is streaking through the neutral zone. Both of them are unaware of the incoming Brown defenseman until the six-foot-six senior drives his shoulder into Nursey’s chest and sends him sprawling onto the ice.

Ollie jumps the player immediately, whistles are blown and the refs get involved, but there’s nothing to be done, it was a clean hit on a player with his head down because he was receiving a pass that shouldn’t have been made in the first place and for the second time that night, Will feels like he’s going to be sick on the ice.

He’s almost at Nursey’s side--who _ still _hasn’t gotten up--when Wicks gets in his face and shoves him back, hard. 

“What the _ fuck _was that pass, Poindexter?” he spits, fuming. “You don’t set up your d-man to get crushed like that!”

He hardly hears him, too busy trying to make out the words on Nursey’s lips as his talks to the trainer, curled into himself on the ice. “Move, Pacer, I have to--”

He shoves him again. “I think you’ve done enough.” 

“Stop.” Ransom steps between them and roughly grabs Will by the bicep. “Dex, get off the ice.”

“No, Rans, I need--”

“Get _ off _the ice,” he repeats slowly, icily, and Will looks up to see anger and disappointment in his captain’s face. 

He lets himself be dragged back to the bench. 

“Poindexter, you’re done,” Coach Hall’s voice is steely. “Get out of here.”

Will has nothing left to argue, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes as he trudges back down the tunnel and into the empty locker room. He removes his gear numbly, showers in a daze, and tries not to imagine Nursey in the ICU laying next to Jason Noles. 

By the time the team files back into the room, tense faces and silent anger, he’s imagined every worse can scenario in the book, so when Chowder quietly tells him that it looks like Nursey just has some bruised ribs, he breathes fully for the first time since the hit. 

The relief doesn’t last long as Whiskey, who takes losses even harder than Jack ever did, marches right up to Will’s face and starts screaming. 

“Who the _ fuck _taught you how to play hockey, Poindexter? Playmaking one-oh-one: don’t fucking set your man up to get laid out! That was a textbook suicide pass, what the fuck were you thinking? It wasn’t enough to injure one player in a game, you had to get another one in? And take out our top d-pair in the process? We were back in the game, we had a chance to win it, and you fucking blew it for all of us with a stupid, reckless play! How could you be so fucking careless?”

He doesn’t get the chance to respond because Holster storms into the locker room, grabs Whiskey by the back of his jersey, and yanks him away from Will. 

“Back the _ fuck _ off, Whisk. Who the hell do you think you are, yelling at your teammate like that? Win or lose, we have each other’s backs, and we do _ not _blame one player for a team loss. Am I clear?”

Whiskey’s jaw is tense when he bites out, “Crystal,” and shrugs out of Holster’s grip, stomping over to his stall and roughly removing his gear. 

Will blinks when he realizes Holtzy is crouched right in front of him--when did that happen--and his face has gone soft and concerned.

“You alright, man?”

He tries to tell him that he’s fine, that it’s Nursey he needs to be worried about, but the words won’t come and he has to hold back a desperate noise when he realizes he’s once again on the verge of another panic attack because _ dammit, _ he doesn’t have _ time _for this; he needs to be there for Nursey the way that he’s been there for him. 

But then Holster reaches out to put his hand on Will’s knee, and he flinches away so violently that he knocks over his equipment where it’s sat in the stall next to him and the resulting crash causes several heads to turn in his direction. 

He gulps. 

Bitty steps forward calmly, reaching a hand out not quite close enough to touch, and asks in a voice that’s more command than request, “Walk with me?”

He stands and follows the junior out of the room on autopilot, preparing to get chewed out again, shaking as Bitty leads them to an empty conference room and locks the door behind them. 

“Sit. Head between your knees.”

Will blinks, way too out of it to ask for clarification. 

Bitty takes mercy on him and provides it, pointing to the floor in front of the couch. “We’re gonna sit here and breathe until you stop lookin’ like you’re ready to faint, and then we’re gonna chat; just you and me. Alright?”

Like his body was waiting for permission to fall apart, he crumples to the floor and buries his face in his hands.

Bitty crouches next to him and warns, “I’m gonna put my hand on your shoulder, okay?”

He squeezes gently, and Will leans into him, something about his calm energy and unthreatening nature soothing him and allowing him to accept the physical comfort in a way he so rarely can when he’s like this. He’s even able to follow Bitty’s counts, breathing in and out under his direction. It’s one of the more quiet panic attacks he’s had, trembling silently until it no longer feels like his chest is being squeezed, until he can finally remove his hands from their vice grip on his hair. 

He looks up at Bitty, breaths evening out, and asks, “How did you know--oh,” he cuts himself off. “Jack?”

Bitty smiles sadly and nods. He settles himself more comfortably on the floor next to Will and cards a hand through his hair. “You ready to talk?”

He shakes his head because, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“No, you’re not,” Bitty tells him firmly. “Here.” 

He takes Will’s hands in his own and places them on his abdomen. “Breathe into your belly. Slowly.”

He watches him for a moment before getting up and crossing the room, grabbing a garbage can from under the table and placing it on his other side when he sits back down.

“Bits,” Will moans, warning, as the nausea creeps up his throat.

“Nope, keep breathing. You’re fine.”

There are a few tense moments when Will retches and has to press a hand over his mouth, but Bitty stays calm, muttering “Just breathe, nice and slow,” into his ear, rubbing his back in soothing circles the way his mom used to do, and eventually the danger passes.

Bitty steps out for a moment to get him some water, and when he comes back they move to the couch. He gives Will a few minutes to collect himself before asking bluntly, “Is this why you’ve been losing weight?”

He sighs. Of course the guys have noticed he’s dropped weight since Thanksgiving, undoing all of the hard work he put in during the preseason.

He nods slowly, not offering more information.

“Are you getting help?”

“Not yet,” he says quietly, knowing that’s not the response he wants to hear.

Bitty reaches out to squeeze his knee. “I think it’s time to change that, hon. You can’t continue like this.”

He swallows hard. “I know, I know the team is suffering because of me and I don’t want—“

“You sweet, silly boy,” Bitty interrupts sadly, “I don’t care about hockey right now. I’m worried about you.” 

His throat is tight when he says, “I got Nursey _ hurt _, Bitty—“

“He’s going to be fine, Ransom is going with him to get x-rays, but the trainers are saying he’s just got some bad bruising.”

“I shouldn’t have made that pass—“

“You were distracted,” he notes evenly. When Will nods, ashamed, he prompts, “Why?”

“Pently was telling me how Noles is in the ICU and—“

“Is _ that _ what that no-good piece of trash said to you?” Bitty demands, fuming. “Oh, Dex, honey, he was _ lying, _ he just wanted to get under your skin. Noles has a concussion and got a few stitches but he’s _ fine _.”

Will lets out a sharp breath, shaking all over again, and presses the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “_ Fuck. _”

“Will, sweetheart, you have one hell of a slapshot, but it’s not hard enough to put someone in intensive care. Jason will be back before the end of the season, Nursey will only miss a few games, and you need to stop being so hard on yourself.”

He laughs, strangled, and shakes his head. “Easier said than done, Bits.”

He sighs, working a hand through Will’s hair again, and says, “You’re as bad as Jack, I swear.” It sounds like he’s reciting from memory when he declares, “The whole world does not rest on your shoulders no matter how much it feels that way.”

Will catches Bitty’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you.”

He pulls him in for a warm hug. “Got your back, Will.”

  
  
  


It’s nearing two in the morning when Nursey and Ransom finally stumble through the doorway of the sophomores’ shared hotel room, and Will has been waiting up since the team got back at eleven. 

He hurried through his own post-game routine, haphazardly throwing his suit into his bag and slipping into soft sleep clothes so he could focus on getting things ready for his roommate’s return. He piled all of the pillows in the room onto Nursey’s bed so he wouldn’t have to lean back too far and strain his injured ribs, and he made sure his suit was neatly packed away in his travel bag before laying out pajamas for him to change into. He filled a cup of water and placed it on the bedside table along with Nursey’s phone charger and his meds. After that, he packed away everything the two of them wouldn’t need for the night so they’d be ready to load their bags onto the bus in the morning. Obviously, Nursey won’t be playing tomorrow, but as long as he’s up for it, he’ll still travel with the team to the arena for their second game against Brown before the bus takes them back to Samwell in the evening.

After their personal belongings were dealt with and there are bags of ice waiting in the freezer of the room’s mini-fridge, Will makes the mistake of checking social media. 

He’s not exactly a well-known guy. Now that Jack isn’t playing for the Wellies, the team doesn’t get a ton of media attention. They’ve been having a bit of a subpar season, though at times Will’s own play has been enough to generate some talk (not as much talk as Whiskey’s but, to be fair, people like to hear about superstar freshman forwards more than solid sophomore defensemen). He _ is _coming off a nine game point streak, so he’s unsurprised that he’s gained a few thousand twitter followers since the start of the season, but he is surprised at just how flooded his mentions are tonight.

The video of Noles going down has over twenty thousand views. Most of the comments are simple well-wishes, but a few mention Will’s name with things like “_ poor kid looked wrecked. you hate to be the cause of an injury like that _ ” and “ _ really feel for Poindexter here, no one likes to see that happen _ ” and even a couple “ _ wow, what a shot _”s. 

Then he finds the video of the hit on Nursey. That one has over sixty thousand views. A majority of the fans in the comments are praising the hit for being “good, clean hockey” and talking about the enormous size of the Brown player, but enough are talking about the pass to make Will feel sick all over again.

_ What a dangerous pass by 24 _

_ textbook suicide pass, really hope his coach laid into him for that one _

_ this was after poindexter hit that guy with a slapshot. rough night for the kid. _

_ yikes. he’s the point leader for his team this season. definitely a better player than what this play shows. _

_ man poor nurse didnt see it coming. hope he’s alright _

Will scrolls and scrolls until his vision blurs and he realizes there are tears in his eyes; the hot, prickling shame at the back of his eyes making his head feel heavy. That’s when the door is shouldered open. 

He tosses his phone aside and stands up, roughly swiping at his eyes and clearing his throat, hoping the definite redness on his face is concealed by the low lighting of the room. He hurries to hold open the door so Ransom can help Nursey through, one hand wrapped around his waist, the other supporting his arm as they slowly make their way to the bed with the mountain of pillows. Will takes Nursey’s other side and they lower him into a seated position, watching him closely for signs of discomfort. 

Once he’s finally settled on the bed, Ransom reports, “No breaks, just some bone-deep bruising.”

Will winces in sympathy because he knows exactly what that feels like.

He hands Will a bag with a bottle of pills and a folder.

“He can take another one of those painkillers in four hours. Until then, ice for twenty on, twenty off while he’s awake. He probably has a minor concussion; don’t wake him up during the night, but if he starts puking or feeling worse, let someone know.” He puts a gentle hand on Nursey’s shoulder and tells him, “That means no screen time, no listening to music, no reading. Not until the headache goes away.”

He hums noncommittally. 

“He’s a little loopy from the meds,” Ransom explains to Will’s raised eyebrow.

They get Nursey out of his sweaty t-shirt and sweatpants and into clean pajamas before Rans gives them both one last shoulder squeeze and says, “Holtzy and I are two doors down if you need us. Try to get some sleep.”

Nursey leans into Ransom’s touch and sighs, “Thanks, Rans.”

“Got your back.”

Will lets out a long breath when his captain leaves the room, glancing at Nursey sadly and asking, “You ready for bed?”

His reply is soft and sad. “You lied to me, Dexy.”

Will’s stomach sinks. “What?”

Nursey looks defeated and hurt and _ sad _ when he looks up and says, “You told me you were good. But you weren’t good. Why did you lie?”

“No, Nursey, I didn’t mean to--”

“I thought we didn’t do that anymore,” he gasps, wincing in pain. “You told me you were going to be honest with me.”

“I’m sorry, I thought--”

“No, Dex,” Nursey struggles to his feet with a groan, and Will reaches out automatically to steady him.

Nursey grips his forearms tightly and his eyes, showing the extent of his pain and exhaustion, bore into Will’s soul. 

“You _ lied _to me, Dex. You lied and you put yourself in danger and--”

“I know, Nursey, I know. I’m so sorry you got hurt, I never meant for that--”

“_ You _ could’ve gotten hurt, you reckless idiot! And then I would’ve had to deal with the guilt for letting you on the ice; why would you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry, that was a bad decision—“

“You said you had my back!” he roars, swearing and hovering a hand above his ribs, face turning gray. He’s shaking when he continues, voice a broken whisper, “You were supposed to have my back.”

Will’s voice cracks when he pleads, “Nursey. Your ribs.”

“Fuck you!” He lifts a weak fist and smacks it against Will’s chest, openly sobbing now. “You can’t lie to me, Will!” He’s screaming again. “Not to me. I can’t take it.”

“Okay, Nursey—Derek, okay. Please,” Will is sobbing around his words, too, “please just sit down, just—“

Chowder bursts through the door, Lardo on his heels, and demands, “What the _ fuck _?”

Derek’s legs give out in that moment and he collapses against Will, shaking and swearing. 

“Could you not have started a screaming match for one _ fucking _night?” he shouts, crossing the room quickly and putting a hand on Derek’s back.

“C, please—“

“I don’t care right now. Nursey needs to rest his injuries and you need to get the fuck out of here.”

Derek makes a desperate sound and clings tighter to Will, sobbing into his neck.

“Der,” Will sobs, “you gotta let C help you, okay?” He can’t tell which of them is shaking harder.

Chowder gently pries his arms from around Will’s neck and leads him back to the bed, gathering him in his arms and talking quietly in his ear. Will stands frozen in the middle of the room until Lardo taps his arm.

“C’mon,” she says quietly, tilting her head toward the door. 

He follows her silently, not attempting to stop the tears streaming down his face. 

“Do you want to sleep in Chow’s room?” she asks once the door is closed behind them, holding up her copies of keycards for the boys’ rooms. 

“I—“ He pauses, considering. He’s exhausted and overwhelmed and wants nothing more than to collapse into a bed, but his head is also...not right and he has the self-awareness to admit that he probably shouldn’t be alone right now. “Um, which room are Rans and Holtzy in?”

Something like pride crosses Lardo’s face before she leads him down the hall, knocking quietly on room fourteen B. When Holster answers the door, face going from sleepy and confused to alert and concerned, she wraps Will in a warm hug and whispers in his ear, “Call me if you need anything.”

He watches her walk away, tears still flowing freely, then turns back to his captain. Words escape him.

“I, um.”

Holster sighs and steps back into the room, holding the door open. An invitation. “Come ‘ere, dude.”

A few moments later, he’s sat on the edge of one of the twin beds, twisting a water bottle in his hands, his captains sat across from him. 

He tries again.

“I, um, I think—“ The words get caught in his throat but he swallows roughly and soldiers on. “I think there’s something wrong. Um. Wrong with me.”

His eyes flick up briefly to gauge their reactions and finds them looking confused, so he tries to elaborate.

“I don’t think my head is, um, in a good place.”

Ransom sits up a little straighter. “Are you feeling unsafe right now?”

The question throws Will. Is he asking if he’s going to hurt himself? He wants to immediately brush off that concern, but there’s a part of his brain—a dark, scary part that he’s buried under layers of deflection—that wonders if maybe he deserves to hurt after all the pain that he’s caused today. The fact that he’d even entertain such a thought scares the shit out of him and for the second time tonight, his voice cracks when he admits, “I don’t know.”

“Hey, alright, that’s okay,” Holster soothes him when he starts crying again. “You did the right thing by coming here.”

He cries harder when they get up and come to sit on either side of him, sandwiching him between their warmth and unwavering support.

Through the sobs, he manages to choke out, “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

“Okay, Dexy, it’s alright, you’re okay.”

“I’m not, Rans,” he gasps, shaking his head, “I’m really not.”

“You will be.” He says it with so much confidence, Will clings on to that and tries to believe him.

When he’s finally cried out, he explains—painfully and haltingly—how anxious he’s been recently, how he’s losing weight and struggling to keep up with all his responsibilities while managing the increasing number of panic attacks and sleepless nights. 

He leaves out the part about John hitting him. There’s only so much he can deal with in one night.

The guys listen patiently, silently supportive as Will pours his heart out, and when he’s done, they spend a long time hugging.

“I think,” Ransom says eventually, still petting Will’s hair the way he has been for the past ten minutes, “you really need to call your mom.”

Will makes a terrified sound.

“She needs to know, Dex,” Holster insists quietly.

When he holds out his phone, Will raises his eyebrows, alarmed. “Now? It’s four a.m.”

“Yup, right now.”

“No time like the present,” Ransom agrees. His voice turns serious. “You’re really struggling, Will, and your mom can help you more than we can. Don’t you think she’d want to know what you’ve been going through?”

“I don’t want to make her worry about me.”

“Dex, that’s literally a parents’ job description.”

“C’mon,” Holster nudges him with his phone. “We’re right here with you, man.”

Will takes the phone, dials his mom’s number with shaking fingers, and holds his breath.

“Momma? It’s Billy. I think...I think I need help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY 
> 
> I know I made y’all wait a whole month but this is 8000 words please forgive me
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr: thechoicewasallmine
> 
> Trigger warnings for non-graphic on screen physical abuse, fairly graphic depiction of hockey injuries, discussion of a character feeling like they want to hurt themselves (no self harm occurs)


	8. Chapter 8

Will wakes to a crash and a series of hushed swears.

Normally a light sleeper, he has to take a moment to rub the exhaustion from his eyes and get his bearings before he sits up. Last night--this morning, whatever--was one hell of an emotional rollercoaster and a glance at the clock on the wall tells him he only slept for three hours. 

When he sees Nursey trying to twist himself into a hoodie across the room, he sighs.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

Nursey whips his head around, startled, then doubles over in pain, swearing loudly.

“I was trying,” he says, panting, “to get changed. Breakfast.”

Will gives him an exasperated look. Standing up and stretching his arms over his head with a loud groan, he tries and fails to not blush at the way he’s being stared at. Nursey is probably still high from those pain meds.

He crosses the room and gently pulls his partner’s arms through his sleeves.

“You should’ve just woken me up,” he chides quietly.

“You looked like you needed the sleep.” At Will’s shrug he continues, “Seriously, dude, how do you look even worse than I do?”

He laughs, a tired sound and says, “Long night,” as he eases Nursey back toward the bed. “I’ll go get us food. You sit here and don’t move.”

“I’m fine--”

“Nurse. Please.” It comes out cracked and a little desperate. “Let me.”

Nursey considers him for a moment and must see the way his composure is dangerously fragile because he sighs and nods. “Alright. Thanks.”

Will has to bite his tongue to keep from replying, “Got your back.” He’s not sure if he’s still allowed to say that.

“Maybe put some clothes on before you go downstairs,” Nursey suggests, smile strained and a little flat, and Will looks down to find that he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, having abandoned his shirt when he got back to their room last night (this morning, whatever) after soaking it through with tears while on the phone with his mom.

He clears his throat. “Uh, right.”

He hastily uses the bathroom--carefully avoiding his haunted expression--brushes his teeth, throws on a shirt and sweatpants, and even remembers to grab his key from the top of the dresser. When he pulls open the door, he finds his coach on the other side with a fist raised to knock, one of the team’s trainers stood behind him.

“Oh, good morning, Will. Glad I caught you,” Coach Hall says pleasantly. He tilts his head down the hall, silently beckoning him to follow, and the trainer gives him a tight smile before he slides passed him into the room. 

He hears Nursey greet, “Hey, Davey,'' before the door closes.

Will follows his coach to the end of the hall and finds that he’s almost too tired to be anxious right now. Almost.

“So,” he begins gruffly, “I don’t think it’s a surprise that you’re not playing tonight.”

Will clenches his fists. He’s _ not _surprised, he expected this, but it still feels like a punch to the gut.

“Yeah, I figured,” he says quietly ashamed.

“This isn’t a punishment,” Coach interjects quickly, “the staff and I decided you need the rest more than you need to play.” He lets Will digest that information before he adds, “I spoke with your captains this morning.” 

He nods slowly, fully aware they’d have to report his embarrassing breakdown to the coaches, there’s probably some protocol about mental health in the ECAC. Will has to bite down a bitter laugh. He’s a statistic now.

“You did the right thing, Dex,” Coach continues steadily. “I want you to take this upcoming week to focus on yourself, rest your body and your mind, then come back to practice next Monday ready to work, alright?”

Through the humiliation burning the back of his throat, Will nods. “Alright.”

Coach claps him on the shoulder. “Go look after your partner, we’ll talk more later.”

They part ways in the hall, Coach heading back to Nursey while Will steps into the elevator, composing himself as he’s lowered to the ground floor.

The coaches aren’t angry with him, his captains aren’t angry at him, and by the tentative but mild words he exchanged with Nursey this morning, his partner isn’t angry at him either.

So why can’t Will clamp down the anger he feels at himself?

The way that Chowder wraps him in a warm hug when he meets him in the buffet line drains some of that anger.

“I’m _ so _sorry, Dex,” he breathes into his shoulder, squeezing tight. “God, I was such a dick to you last night and you were already upset, I was just so worried about Nursey and I was tired and grumpy and--”

“It’s okay, C,” Will assures him softly, “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true and I’m glad you were there for Nurse.”

Chowder releases him halfway so he can study his face. “Are you okay?”

He shrugs sheepishly because, “Not really.” When Chowder frowns, concerned, Will twists his lips into something resembling a smile and says, “But I will be.”

A hand settles softly on Will’s back, and he turns to see Rans and Holtzy looking about as tired as he feels. He lets the latter pull him into a hug as the guilt hits him hard all over again. 

“Did you talk to Hall yet?” Holster asks as he lets go, expression sympathetic.

“Yeah. Benched for the week.”

Chowder touches his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“No, _ I’m _ sorry,” Will insists, “Brown isn’t easy to beat when we’re at full strength and now you guys have to play without me _ and _Nursey while Rans is already injured--.”

“Will.” Ransom’s voice is quiet, but stern. “Some things are more important than hockey.”

He sighs and nods because while he doesn’t really believe that _ he _is more important than hockey, he knows that Nursey’s health is.

“I’m gonna take some food up for Nurse.” He gives the guys parting fist bumps. “We’ll see you at the rink.”

With a final squeeze from Chowder, Will carries two trays of food back to their hotel room. Thanks to that summer he spent covering his cousin’s shift at the steakhouse, he manages to shoulder the door open without dropping anything, earning an impressed eyebrow raise from Nursey. 

He starts to push himself off the bed. “Here, let me help--”

“Nope,” Will interrupts sternly. “Sit. I got it.”

Nursey rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, dude.”

“Yeah?” He gives him a look of disbelief. “Doctor Dave cleared you to play?”

The glare he gets in response as he sets the food on the bed and sits across from Nursey would make him laugh under other circumstances; as it is, he’s too apprehensive to crack a smile.

“So, uh, they didn’t have any chocolate almond milk but I know you like that better than soy milk so I brought up the vanilla almond and the chocolate soy,” Will picks at his fingers as his nervous words spill out, “and I double checked the bagels aren’t egg-brushed, also the margarine is non-dairy and there’s no honey in the bread--”

“Dex.” Nursey’s face is soft, awed. “That was so thoughtful of you.”

He shrugs, face heating, because for all that he lives to chirp Nursey about being vegan, he knows exactly what he can and can’t (and prefers not to) eat and maybe it’s a little weird that he pays so much attention and he shouldn’t have given himself away.

Nursey shakes his head and his smile is faint, but there as he continues, “Seriously, thank you.”

Will shrugs again and mumbles, “Got your back,” but freezes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, carefully watching Nursey’s reaction.

His smile widens and something in Will’s chest releases. Maybe they really are okay.

Nursey takes a bite of his bagel then, carefully, reaches for the bottle of painkillers sitting on the bedside table and swallows one with a sip of almond milk. 

Will breathes through the guilt. “So, what did Davey say?”

He sighs. “Week to week. I don’t have a concussion but these ribs are gonna take a while to heal.” His mouth twists down. “But I guess you know all about that.”

Will bites his lip. “Right.”

That’s at least three, maybe four weeks of pain for Nursey thanks to Will’s carelessness.

“Not hungry?” Nursey asks, gesturing to Will’s plate. “You’ve been pushing those eggs around like they personally offended--”

“Can we talk?” Will blurts out, too loud in the stillness of the morning. He cringes and hurries to add, “I just, we really need to talk, and I can’t--” He stops himself, unable to explain how the uneasiness crawls up his throat until he’s choking on it.

But Nursey understands (he always does) and nods quickly. “Yeah, man, of course.” He pushes his plate aside and, with difficulty, sits up straighter, meeting Will’s eyes evenly when he says, “I am so sorry, Dex.”

Will blinks, stunned and horrified that _ Nursey _feels like he has to apologize after what Will has done to him. “What? Nurse--”

He holds up a hand. “Let me finish. I don’t blame you for that hit and I shouldn’t have yelled at you last night. I was pretty fucked up, but that’s a lame excuse for the way I screamed at you when you were already a mess. None of this would’ve even happened if it wasn’t for me; I shouldn’t have let you on the ice after the second. I’m so sorry I didn’t have your back.”

Will swallows passed a wave of tears but his voice still cracks when he pleads, “_ Nursey _, that wasn’t on you; I lied--”

“Yeah, and you’re a terrible liar.” Nursey huffs a sad laugh. “C’mon, man. I knew you weren’t okay to play and I let it happen.”

“I don’t expect you to be my _ keeper _, Nursey, jesus. It’s not your job to make sure my head is screwed on straight.”

There’s a beat of silence before Nursey snorts, “Don’t think either of our heads are straight.”

The bark of laughter catches Will so off guard that he has to throw a hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes shining with relief, lingering sadness, and fondness for the boy sitting in front of him. 

“Nursey,” Will says wetly, raising a hand to wipe under his eyes, “I mean it. Getting back on the ice was my stupid decision which directly led to the hit that got you hurt and I am so, _ so _sorry.”

Nursey reaches out a hand and Will grabs it like a lifeline, squeezing tight. 

“I forgive you, Will. Can you forgive me?”

“Derek, of course. Of course I forgive you.” 

They sit there, hands intertwined, shaky breaths growing steadier, until Will is able to admit in a whisper, “I talked to my mom last night.”

Derek looks tentatively hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She, uh, she made some calls for me. I have an appointment with a psychologist on Wednesday.”

“Will,” he breathes softly, “I am so proud of you.”

“Something has to change.” He squeezes their joined hands. “I can’t let you down like that again. I won’t.”

  
  


He holds it together for a full twenty minutes after his first therapy session--enough time to schedule another appointment for Friday and get back to his building--but when he walks into his room to find Nursey on his bed waiting for him like he’d promised he would, Will loses it. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” 

Nursey crosses the room quickly and Will lets himself be gathered into his open arms, the first sob taking him by surprise. He clings to Nursey’s shoulders, carefully minding the bruised ribs which have thankfully been healing faster than originally expected, and lets himself break down the way he’s been wanting to do for the past hour.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” he croaks after the sobs have finally been reduced to hiccups and they’ve made their way to Will’s bed.

“Did you not like her?” Nursey asks softly.

“No, no,” Will shakes his head, “she was really nice.” He’s telling the truth, Lisa was kind and patient and made him feel safe, but… “I just--I know you warned me, but I didn’t expect that to be so hard.”

“Therapy isn’t exactly a walk in the park,” Nursey agrees with a sad smile, “that’s why we need it.”

It’s similar to what he told him last night when they were huddled together in Chowder’s room, the two of them talking Will through what to expect from his first therapy session, and he is suddenly, immensely grateful.

“Hey,” he sits up abruptly and wipes the tears off his face because Nursey has to know he means it when he says, “You know you’re a really good friend, right?”

Nursey’s smile does something to Will’s chest that feels nothing at all like anxiety. The hand that’s been resting on his shoulders brushes his collarbone gently, fingers soft and soothing.

“Just returning the favor,” Nursey says easily. “You started letting me crash here just because my hell brain wasn’t letting me sleep. That’s like, friend level expert.”

Will huffs a laugh drops his head onto Nursey’s shoulder. “Look at us, getting our shit together and everything.”

He rests his head on Will’s and hums. “Who’d have thought?”

“The dream team is back together!” Chowder screams as Nursey hits the ice a step behind Will, sliding over and crushing them both in a hug, expression elated.

They’re immediately tackled by Holster and Ransom. 

“You watch your mouth, frog, the dream team has been here the whole time.”

Ransom smacks Chowder’s mask. “Holtzy’s right. You guys are dream team junior.”

Will grins wickedly. “That’s not what our stats say.” 

Getting crushed into the boards by the seniors is worth it for the way Nursey cackles, happiness lighting up his face. 

“Alright, alright,” Coach Murray skates over and breaks up the scrum with a fondly exasperated expression, “enough screwing around; or did we forget about the fifty shots we let through on Saturday?” 

Will cringes. That was not their defenses’ best showing of the season.

“Time to get to work, boys,” Coach continues. “And, Nurse, don’t expect me to take it easy just because it’s your first full practice in four weeks. You need to get back into shape one way or another.”

Nursey groans, but gives coach a thumbs up. When the man turns away, he looks at Will and mouths, “I’m going to die.”

He taps him with his stick and laughs. “Probably.”

That weekend in their first game back together in over a month, Will gets the third hattrick of his college career and Nursey has at least a secondary assist on all three goals for his first three point night. Ever. 

If it means Nursey keeps hugging him and screaming praises into his ear, Will might develop into a goal-scoring defenseman after all.

The mood in the locker room afterwards is electric. It’s not until an hour after the game has finished that they both speak to the press, and Will has a hard time keeping the smile off his face. 

“Yeah, obviously, it’s great to get a big win at home. We’re still fighting for a playoff spot, here, so those two points are really important. Chow was great for us, you know, we got a little sloppy late in the first and he bailed us out.”

The press pushes him to talk about his hat trick. 

“Yeah, I mean, Nurse set me up with a couple perfect passes and I was able to capitalize on them. Right place, right time.”

One of the reporters--Steve, he thinks is his name, asks, “Did Nurse’s return to the lineup influence your play at all?”

He can’t help the smirk that breaks through what the guys like to call his ‘resting press face’. “Other than the three goals, you mean?” He lets the laughter die down before he continues, “No, yeah, I mean, I’ve been playing with Nurse since freshman year and we’ve developed some pretty good chemistry. I definitely play better with him than without.”

“What do you attribute that chemistry to?”

Will can feel his face heating. “Dunno, I guess there’s a certain level of trust there. We spend a lot of time together off the ice and I think we know each other pretty well. So, you know, I know he’s got my back out there.”

Steve and the rest of the reporters smile at him, and Will tries not to look like he wants to melt through the floor. 

“Thanks for your time, Will, and congrats.”

“Dude,” Nursey breathes into his shoulder some time later, curled into each other on the couch in the Haus, quietly celebrating a win without a kegster since game two of the weekend is tomorrow. “Your interview was so fucking soft.”

Will pinches the arm that’s thrown across his middle. “Yours was softer. You told the press I’m your best friend.”

He shrugs, and burrows closer into Will’s side. “Well, you are.”

Will’s heart starts hammering in his chest, but for once it’s not unpleasant. 

“And you said I make you a better player.”

“You do.” He says it so easily, so simply.

Will swallows and whispers, “Derek--”

“Smile boys!”

They snap their heads up in time to see Bitty pointing his phone at them with a wide grin on his face, and the moment they were about to have is lost. The photo that’s posted on Bitty’s twitter shows Derek and Will smiling softly and proudly flipping off the camera with the arms not wrapped around each other. Bitty captions it with, “Six points but zero manners between these two tonight. #entiltedfrogs #talentedfrogs”. 

Will saves the picture in his phone and carefully ignores the warmth in his chest. 

  
  


“I feel really gay right now.”

Derek laughs and throws his arm around Will’s shoulders.

“Yeah, hanging out with other queer people will do that to you.”

He says it like he’s speaking from experience and Will realizes abruptly that he probably is. He isn’t the only gay friend that Derek has, he grew up confidently queer and knows how to navigate diverse spaces in a way that Will himself still has a lot to learn about. A morning spent at Samwell’s LGBTQ+ Center is just another morning for him, not a nerve wracking event the way it is for Will. 

“Seriously,” he pinches Nursey’s arm gently, “thanks for convincing me to check out the Center, I’m really glad I went.”

“Thank _ you _for finally agreeing to come; they’ve been harassing me about meeting you forever.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I talk about you a lot.”

Now he’s blushing. “Really?”

Derek laughs again. “Yeah man, you're one of the stars on the hockey team, you know, you're pretty popular around here, Poindexter.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

“Hey.” Derek puts his free hand on his arm to stop him in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting for him to make eye contact. “I mean it. You’re a damn good player and you deserve recognition for that.”

He’s been doing this a lot recently--going out of his way to deliver a compliment, being genuinely and, at times, overwhelmingly nice. And it’s, well, it’s _ nice. _Will finds himself doing the same; the more Derek opens up to him, the more he opens up back, and he’s never felt so free with someone, so real. 

“Billy Poindexter?”

Will pulls back from Derek like he’s been shocked, putting as much distance between them as he conceivably can because he recognizes that voice. 

“Sammy, hey,” he says tightly, turning to meet a face he hasn’t seen since high school graduation, “it’s good to see you.” 

She surprises him by stepping in for a hug, wrapping tiny arms around his waist and squeezing tightly, and Will is startled to realize that he actually kind of missed her. 

“God it's been too long,” she breathes as she steps back, looking up at his face, then frowning. “Oh shit, you got hot.”

Nursey reacts before he does, doubling over and sputtering out a startled laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Nurse,” Will whacks him on the shoulder, “not like it’s a surprise I was ugly in high school.”

“Not ugly enough to keep me from dating you,” Sammy reminds him with a grin.

“No shit?” Nursey’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “You two used to date?” He gives Will a pointed look that he carefully ignores.

“For a while, yeah, junior year.” Sammy extends her hand to Nursey. “Samantha Plucket.”

“Derek Nurse.”

Sammy’s interest peaks. “Nurse as in number twenty-eight Derek Nurse?”

He pulls out his most charming grin. “Guilty.”

“Wicked game against Dartmouth last weekend,” she says appreciatively. Her eyes flick over to Will, briefly. “Both of you. Giving UMaine a run for our money, eh?”

“Speaking of,” Will tilts his head at her curiously, “what the hell are you doing at Samwell?”

“I’m on spring break, just here for two days visiting my girlfriend. You remember Jessica Lee?”

Will blinks. “You and Jess? Really?”

Sammy laughs. “I know, I know, she’s out of my league.”

“No, I just mean, I’m a little surprised, I guess--”

Nursey elbows him, hard, and Will realizes that the smile has faded from Sammy’s face and she looks uncomfortable.

“Wait, shit, sorry, that came out wrong.” He holds up his wrist, displaying the rainbow bracelet he picked up from the LGBTQ+ center, and tells her, “I just think it’s funny that we dated each other and now we’re both gay.”

She bursts into surprised laughter. “Are you telling me we were both using each other to convince ourselves we were straight?”

He laughs with her. “Yup.”

“Guess we didn’t do a very good job, huh?”

“I dunno,” Nursey interjects with a sly grin, “this one thought he liked girls until not that long ago.”

Will sighs dramatically. “It was the internalized homophobia, Nurse, leave me alone.”

He laughs and shoves him, shaking his head fondly.

It turns out they were all headed in the same direction so Sammy walks with them, making easy conversation and reminding Will why their relationship worked for as long as it did.

“So, how are you doing, Billy, really?” she asks eventually. “I know it’s not an easy time of year for you.”

He shrugs, aware of Nursey’s curiously concerned gaze, and says, “I’m okay, I guess. It’s--you know…”

“Are you going home this weekend?”

“Can’t.” He grips his backpack a little tighter. “We have two games in Pennsylvania.” 

She squeezes his arm. “I’m sorry, that must be hard.”

He shrugs again. “My mom said we’ll do another mass when I can get home but she’s gonna do the cemetery stuff with my sisters. I didn’t want her to wait.”

Nursey makes a noise of understanding and knocks their shoulders together as they walk.

“This year is four years, right?” Sammy asks quietly. 

Will nods. 

“Doesn’t get easier, does it?” She smiles sadly, knowing.

He tries to smile back, holding out a fist, and saying a phrase they’ve shared countless times. “Dead parent club.”

She chokes out a laugh and taps his fist with her own, parting a moment later to head to her girlfriend’s dorm with hugs for both of them and a warning for Will to “stop being an antisocial loser and download instagram.”

He waits until she’s out of ear shot to acknowledge Nursey’s tense jaw. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs and briefly closes his eyes. “I know you are, man. Just wish you’d be honest about not trusting me.”

“Oh, c’mon, Nurse, don’t do that. You know I trust you.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “See, you say that, but you literally never talk to me. Were you going to tell me that your dad’s death anniversary is this weekend?”

“I don’t like to talk about it--”

“You don’t like to talk about anything!”

Will sucks in a breath. “That’s not fair. I talk to you more than anyone.”

Nursey deflates with a sad huff of laughter. “And therein lies the problem.” He drags his gaze back to Will’s face. “Look, man, I’m not gonna force you to open up to me if you’re not ready, I just need to know where we stand. I can’t keep being the only one who’s putting himself out there; I’m not gonna do all the work to maintain this friendship.”

Will swallows, and it hurts. “Nursey--”

“I’m not gonna keep pushing you, Will. You need to figure out what you want.” 

“I’m sorry.” This time it’s a drawn out whisper.

“Me too.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I think I’m gonna head back to my room and take a nap--”

“Your room?” Will interrupts, surprised.

Nursey shrugs. “Yeah, my head is a little less fucked these days, I think I’ll manage.”

“My door is always open to you,” he reminds him urgently, “you know that, right?”

He smiles, strained. “I know.” He half-heartedly punches his arm. “I’ll see you later.”

Will watches him walk away, forcing himself to unclench his fists, and pulls out his phone. He wants to slink back into his room and suffer in silence, so he digs down deep and does the opposite. Chowder answers his text immediately because he’s a good friend like that.

When he walks through the front door of the Haus, he’s unsurprised to be greeted by the smell of cinnamon. He peeks his head into the kitchen. 

“Hey, Bits.”

“Dex!” He turns with an easy smile. “Can you let Nursey know there are vegan chocolate chip cookies here for him?”

Will keeps his face carefully impassive. “Yeah, sure, I’ll tell him,” if he’s still talking to me, he thinks glumly.

He drops the smile as he trots up the stairs, shouldering his way into Chowder’s room without knocking, dropping his backpack on the floor, and throwing himself face-first onto his bed. With his face buried in his pillow’s, Will lets out a long groan.

There’s a snort from above him. 

“Mood.”

The bed dips as Chowder sits next to him, and gently pokes him on the shoulder.

“You okay?”

He turns his face to reply, “No. I’m an idiot.”

“Not gonna disagree with you there,” he twists out of the way of Will’s half-hearted smack, “but what makes you think you’re an idiot?”

He sighs, rolling over and staring at the ceiling. “Nursey.”

Chowder makes a face. “What are you two fighting about now?”

“My inability to maintain a healthy friendship,” he deadpans. 

“I don’t think _ our _friendship is unhealthy--”

“My dad died four years ago on Saturday,” he blurts out before he loses the nerve.

Chowder lets out a sharp breath. “Oh, Dex, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. I just, it’s a hard time of year, you know?” He sits up and crosses his legs, picking at his fingers and staring down at them. “And I was talking to this girl from high school and Nursey was upset that I didn’t tell him, which, I get, but also--”

“That’s not exactly fair of him,” Chowder says carefully.

“No, I mean, he wasn’t mad,” Will hurries to defend him because, “he has a point. I’m not exactly, uh, open about this kind of stuff.”

“You don’t have to spill your darkest secrets to be a good friend, Dex.”

He shrugs. “I guess. I just feel like Nursey deserves more from me. I keep fucking things up with him, over and over.” His voice is quiet when he admits, “I just want to stop hurting him.”

“Oh.” Will looks up to find a careful, quizzical expression on Chowder’s face. “Dex...do you…?”

“Don’t,” he replies, sharper than he’s ever been with Chowder. “Seriously, C, I can’t.”

Chowder is quiet for a beat before he starts, hesitantly, “Dex...are you--at home, are things...are you in danger?”

He swallows roughly, but doesn’t try to hide the shaking in his hands. “Not if I stay in the closet.”

His face falls. “Dex—“ Chowder pulls him into a tight hug without saying anything else, and Will thinks while maybe he isn’t always the perfect friend, he’s not going to let his relationships just fall apart. 

“What I want is to be your friend,” Will says without preamble when Nursey walks into his dorm later that evening. “I want to stop hurting you. I want to be open with you. I want to prove that I trust you.”

“Will, stop,” Nursey pulls the door shut and sits next to him on the bed, turning so he can make eye contact. “I was way too harsh on you earlier and I’m sorry. I know you’re working through some shit, I know you’re trying. I shouldn’t have gotten frustrated by your efforts; you were right, that wasn’t fair.”

Will frowns. “It’s okay to tell me what you need from me, Derek.”

He smiles weekly. “That a line your therapist gave you?”

“Maybe.” He reluctantly smiles back. 

“Seriously, Will,” Nursey shakes his head, smile turning remorseful, “I was wrong. You deserve more credit from me.”

“And you deserve more honesty from me.”

He nods. “Okay.”

“Are _ we _okay?”

“Of course we are.” Nursey nudges his thigh. “C’mon, man. If we hurry, we can make it to the dining hall before they run out of barbeque tempeh.”

Will makes a face. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to miss that.”

The bright laugh he gets in return makes him feel warm from the inside out.

  
  


The hockey season comes and goes and with it, the strongest end to a season he’s ever had. It wasn’t enough to carry the team into the playoffs, but for the first time in a long time, Will feels like maybe he’s on track to becoming the person he’s always wanted to be.

Therapy has been difficult, but he can feel the hard work paying off, his toolbox of coping mechanisms growing each day, allowing him to manage his anxiety so well that he sometimes forgets it’s there.

But, he knows, it’s never really gone. He has anxiety. He’s probably always going to have anxiety. He takes medication for his anxiety. But it doesn’t control him anymore. 

His friends and family have been a huge part of that. His baby sisters (he should probably stop calling them that--the twins are fifteen, now) know all about his struggles after Amanda called him at three in the morning a few weeks ago, terrified that the C she got on her report card would ruin her chances of getting into a good college. He ended up FaceTiming with the girls for over two hours, talking Mandy down and explaining to Jess that no, he’s not crazy because he takes medicine for his brain, John just said that because he doesn’t understand mental illness. 

“It’s normal to be worried about these things, kiddo, but you don’t have to keep feeling terrible. Talk to momma, or Jess, or your friends, or call me. Any time, day or night, I’ll answer.”

That had set her off on another round of tears. “I miss you so much, Billy.”

“I miss you both,” he had to swallow hard at the sight of his sisters crying, “but I’ll be home real soon, okay?”

He ended the call feeling exhausted and a little shaky, but also strangely proud of his role as a big brother, determined to be the kind of role model the girls deserve.

His mom still checks in every day, even if it’s just a text or a heart emoji. He’s still getting over the urge to hide how he’s feeling from her, it’s a daily struggle to push past the fear of being a burden. 

His friendship with Chowder has never been stronger. 

He’s settled into a sort of mentorship position with some of the tadpoles. 

And Nursey (Derek, now. He’s Derek) is, well, he’s really good. 

“I’m not going to poison you, Derek. Have a little faith please?”

He mutters something (Will thinks it’s arabic) under his breath before slowly raising the fork to his lips and taking a bite. 

The moan he lets out makes Will regret every decision that led him to this point. 

“What do you think?” he asks, voice almost normal.

Derek moans again. “Dude.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s _ amazing,” _he insists, “holy shit.” He shovels more curry into his mouth. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Will blushes and shrugs. “Both my parents had the cooking gene, but I think I’m the only kid who inherited it.”

“You definitely did, oh my god.” He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully, and asks, “This isn’t too spicy for you?”

He makes a face, caught, because, “Well, I figured if it was just this side of too spicy for me, it’d be just right for you.”

Derek laughs and it’s soft, fond. “Could be spicier.”

Will rolls his eyes as he sits down with his own bowl. “Shut up and eat, you ungrateful asshole.”

They eat slowly, enjoying each other’s company, making small talk.

“I’m surprised Rans and Holtzy aren’t here to steal all of this,” says Derek.

“Nah, they told me they’ll be at the women’s basketball game all night.” He blushes again. “And Bits said he could take a break from stress-baking so the kitchen would be free for us.”

“Will,” Derek gives him his favorite smile. “You reserved kitchen time just to make me vegan curry?”

He chews a large mouthful to avoid answering right away. “It’s for me, too,” he says casually, but the look he gets in response tells him Derek isn’t buying it.

He distracts him with stories of cooking with his parents; tells him about the first time he made pasta by himself at 7 years old, how he learned to bake the perfect cake with his mother and late grandmother, muses over how to make his dad’s signature dish vegan-friendly. 

He’s almost finished his dinner when his phone rings. 

His mom would probably chide him for poor table manners, but when he sees his brother’s caller ID flashing at him and feels the familiar jolt of adrenaline that comes with an unexpected call, he picks up immediately.

“Hey, Luke,” he greets evenly. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Billy. Sorry to drop this on you, but I wanted you to know as soon as I did.”

Will gulps, stomach clenching. “Know what?”

“My tour got extended. I don’t think I’m gonna make it home at all this summer.”

“...Lou,” his voice breaks.

“I’m so sorry, bud. You know if I had the choice, I’d be home.”

“I know, but...the whole summer?”

“Yeah, looks that way.”

“I, um--” Will can feel his chest getting tight, “thanks for telling me. Now’s not really a good time though, can we talk later?”

“Sure, Billy, of course. Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He sees Derek give him a disbelieving look from the corner of his eye. “I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Be safe.”

Wills drops his phone and promptly forgets how to breathe.

“Will?” Derek rounds the table to crouch in front of him, trying to meet his eyes. “What is it?”

“Luke isn’t coming home this summer,” he struggles to choke out because apparently he’s hyperventilating, now. “I’m gonna be alone with John and the girls all summer and I can’t--”

“Okay, Will, just try to slow it down,” he ignores Will shaking his head frantically, “we’ll figure this out together, okay? Breathe into your belly, there you go.”

“No, I can’t, Der, I can’t--”

“Yes you can, just breathe.”

Will twists out of Derek’s gentle grip and stumbles for the stairs, feeling the sickness crawl up his throat long before it usually does, making it to the bathroom just in time and, god, it _ hurts _ . 

Distantly, he hears Chowder ask Derek what he can do, but the sickness drowns out his response. A moment later, Bitty bursts into the bathroom, fretting, and Derek is quick to assign him the task of putting their food away because he knows keeping him busy is the best way for him to deal with his own worries.

Will is only distantly aware of this, most of his attention focused on the pain, and he’s in tears by the time he finishes.

Before he can slump against the wall, a strong hand comes to rest on his back, and Will turns to see Derek handing him a cup of water which he takes gratefully, rinsing out his mouth before accepting the damp towel and wiping his face. 

When he finally collapses against the bathtub, he sees Chowder holding a t-shirt out to him and looks down to find his own has a stain on it.

He makes a face. “Oh, gross.”

Chowder shrugs, “Not your fault,” and helps him change, tossing the soiled shirt into his hamper in the corner of the bathroom.

“I can wash that--”

He waves away his protests. “Got your back.”

Will sighs, trying to let go of the humiliation. “Thanks, C.”

“C’mon,” he tilts his head toward his bedroom. “Frog cuddle party.”

Moments later, the three of them are curled into each other on Chowder’s bed, Will wrapped in extra blankets as he shivers through the lingering anxiety, and Derek is telling a ridiculous story about trying to play hockey in figure skates. 

“We thought it’d be _ fun _, okay? But there’s literally nothing fun about the size of those toe picks.”

Will huffs out a laugh in spite of himself, and Derek looks down at him, concern replacing the humor in his expression.

“Hey. You back with us?”

He nods. “Sorry. I get a little spacey after...you know.”

“No sweat, me too.”

The silence in the room starts to feel heavy so Will takes a deep breath. “Do you guys know where my phone is?”

“Yeah,” Chowder reaches around to his bedside table and hands it to him. 

“Thanks.”

“Gonna call your mom?” Derek asks.

He shakes his head. “I need to talk to my therapist.”

“Will.” He snaps his eyes up to Derek’s face in response to the urgency in his tone. “I am so _ fucking _proud of you.”

He ducks his head again and shrugs. “She told me to call her before I start to panic but, uh, that didn’t really work.”

“Hey,” Chowder pinches the hip that his hand is resting on, “you’re doing great, Dex. She’s gonna be proud of you, too.”

He bites his lip. “Maybe not.” At Chowder’s inquisitive sound, he continues, “I haven’t told her about John, yet.”

Derek sucks in a breath. “Will…”

“Your uncle?” Chowder wonders, curious. 

“Yeah.” Will has to clear his throat. “I, uh, I haven’t really been honest with anyone and that needs...I need to change. You guys deserve to know the truth.”

He dials the number for his therapist and puts his phone on speaker.

  
  


By the time Derek and Will trudge back to their building, Will is officially cried out and, therefore, unafraid, so when Derek turns for his own door, Will grabs his wrist.

“Stay?”

Derek's whole body softens, like he was just waiting for him to ask, and he breathes, “Of course, Will, of course I’ll stay.”

Will blames his emotional fragility for the way he immediately curls into Derek once they climb under the covers, not giving him a moment to question what his intentions are, and letting out a long breath when he gets the hint and throws his arms around him.

“You could come home with me,” Derek eventually whispers into the dark.

Will shakes his head sadly. “The girls. And work.”

“Okay, what if I come with you to Maine?”

“No.” His reply is as sharp as he can manage in his exhausted state. “John is a homophobic prick but he’s also _ dangerously _racist, Derek. You can’t come home to--you can’t.”

The breath Derek lets out is a little shaky, and Will presses his face against his chest.

When his heartbeat is slow again, Derek offers, “We have to come back early to set up our room in the Haus, right? So what if you stayed at my place a few days before that? I know it’s not much, but--”

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice faint. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Will.” Derek brushes a stray hair out of Will’s face and the tenderness makes him shiver. “I would love it if you’d stay with me for as long as you can.”

“Derek…” his voice shakes and he presses himself closer to him, holding on tight. 

“Stay, Will. Please stay.”

He drifts off to the sounds of Derek’s slow breaths, the warmth cocooning his brittle composure, and his last thought as he falls asleep is that maybe being vulnerable has its upsides. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, y'all. Depression is a bitch.
> 
> Ahh things ending on a positive note, this would be a good time to wrap up this story and let my boys be happy, right? *maniacal laughter*
> 
> I apologize if this chapter feels a little rushed, as I re-read this I'll smooth out any weirdness that I notice but I need to stop staring at this in my drafts.
> 
> As always, thank you for the support and please know that even if I don't respond to a comment right away, I read every single one (often several times) and they always make my day!


	9. Chapter 9

Will’s smile hurts his cheeks, and the way it’s reflected back at him on Derek’s face hurts his chest. “I missed you so much.”

Derek scoffs, but it’s fond. “That’s pretty gay.”

“I take it back. Fuck you.”

He laughs and pulls Will’s crossed arms apart so he can step in and squeeze him tightly around the waist, and Will can’t pretend that he hesitated before hugging him back because, _ fuck, _he really did miss him. The past three months felt like a lifetime. 

They stand in the middle of the train platform, faces tucked into each others’ shoulders, swaying slightly, and the moment stretches on, but it never gets uncomfortable. Derek just has that kind of effect on him these days.

Their daily texts and almost nightly phone calls carried Will from one long summer day to the next, buoying him from one painful afternoon with his uncle to another, giving him something to hold on to when things got so bad he didn’t know if he’d be able to keep it from his little sisters. Mandy caught him sitting on the floor of the kitchen one night, slumped against the fridge after John shoved him against it so hard that he could hear some of the shelves inside collapse. He’d have to deal with that in a minute, but he just wanted to sit for a while, to close his eyes and breathe and remind himself that he wouldn’t have to deal with this much longer, that there’s finally a light at the end of the tunnel. 

When Mandy looked at him with her worried, sincere eyes--looking so much like their mother that it almost made him smile--he gave her a line about his anxiety acting up, worrying about the future, and she sat with him, shoulders pressed together, and assured him that she always knew he was gonna play in the NHL, she was just surprised it took him so long to consider it.

Will knows he’s good at hockey; he’s always been one of the best players on his teams, he spends a lot of time getting stronger and faster, and he busts his ass whenever he’s on the ice. What he’s not used to is getting recognized by NHL scouts. 

It started last year, when he was able to pretend the scouts were there for Whiskey in his breakout season, or Chowder who had been breaking save percentage records left and right. He blocked out any possibilities that the scouts were looking at him because he wasn’t ready to accept that kind of responsibility; he had more than enough trouble just taking one day at a time, there was no space in his brain to entertain the idea of playing hockey professionally. 

Then, during finals week, he got invitations to attend summer development camps with the Habs and the Bruins. (He broke the news to Derek before he told his mom and he is not going to think about what that means). The next two months were a whirlwind of phone conversations, video interviews, and terrifyingly unhelpful phone calls with Jack, his bedroom walls becoming a canvas of possibilities lined with offers, contract terms, houses in his hometown that he could afford with his potential entry-level salary, and while he’s never been more conflicted, the hope burning underneath all the uncertainty is hard to ignore. 

With an NHL salary, Will could support his family without any help from Uncle John. They could move out of his house and be completely independent; no more watching his mother be belittled, no more standing by while his little sisters get taunted by a grown man, no more fists to the face.

Before the spring semester ended, Will and his therapist came up with some strategies to keep him safe while he was home (short of pressing assault charges which he firmly refuses to do) and they worked, sometimes. He kept track of his Uncle’s schedule, stayed in the presence of his mom and sisters whenever possible, and found reasons to leave the house when he’d otherwise be alone with him. He took extra shifts at the docks and the hardware store and worked out more than he ever has; his sisters started to get suspicious at the ease with which he agreed to drive them wherever they needed to go, but he doesn’t think they figured him out. 

Jessica and Amanda are fifteen. There are some things that kids don’t need to know. 

So Will is okay. He’s tired, he wished he’d had more time to hang out with his mom, he misses his brother, and the gash on his arm should’ve probably gotten a few stitches instead of being haphazardly glued together in his bathroom, but he’s okay.

The way Derek is holding him makes him feel even better than okay.

“I’m glad you made it,” Derek says as he steps back and shoulders one of Will’s bags. “I was worried about you navigating all alone.”

His tone is teasing, and Will matches it. “I’m a big boy, Derek.”

“A big boy from bumfuck, Maine,” he ruffles Will’s hair. “You in culture shock yet?”

He makes a face. “I was fine until this guy puked on the subway.”

Derek throws his head back and laughs, knocking his shoulder into Will’s. “Welcome to the City.” 

It takes a sharp elbow in the side for Will to pick his jaw off the floor. He stumbles forward and sticks out a clammy hand.

“Hi, Mrs. Amari, it’s so nice to meet you. Your home is beautiful”

Her smile is warm, and Will ignores the pang of homesickness. 

“You can call me Samira, William, it’s a pleasure.”

Derek scoffs. “It’s just Will, Yama.” He bends down to kiss her on the cheek. “Where’s Mama?”

“She’s shopping in your closet to find something for Will to wear tonight.” 

He seems to accept this answer, but Will frowns. “Tonight?”

“We’re taking you to dinner,” Samira explains. “Wouldn’t be a proper welcome if we didn’t.”

Derek whispers inconspicuously, “She’s only saying that because she can’t cook.” He ducks out of the way of his mom’s smack, laughing, and tells her, “He already got a proper NYC welcome.”

“Puke on the subway?”

Will nods. “Puke on the subway.”

She laughs. “Well, why don’t you boys head upstairs and freshen up, we’re leaving at seven.”

They follow her suggestion, heading up the stairs and dropping Will’s bags in the (stunning, airy, tastefully decorated) guest room before entering Derek’s room. It’s smaller than he pictured, but the decor is unsurprising; there are plants in the windowsills, two giant bookshelves on the verge of overflowing, a soft green on the walls and a plush white quilt on the large bed in the far corner of the room. It’s tranquill (_ chill _, Will thinks with an internalized snort).

Derek’s mother is standing in his walk-in closet with her hands on her hips. She, too, gets a kiss on each cheek from Derek and an awkward handshake from Will. She regards him with a little more critical awareness than Samira had, giving him an obvious once over, but still smiles and tells him to call her Luisa, then turns back to Derek’s clothes with a thoughtful frown. 

“I have my game suits with me, I can--”

“Absolutely not,” Luisa cuts him off quickly. “You will not wear something that belongs in a _ hockey rink _ to--no. I won’t allow it.”

Will glances at Derek, panicked, and finds him biting his lip to hold back laughter. He says something softly to his mother in Spanish before grabbing Will’s hand and pulling him away from the enormous closet, pushing him toward his attached bathroom. 

“Go shower off the subway stank,” he instructs, “everything you need is in there. I’ll bring you clothes when Mama finally makes a decision.”

“Is the outfit going to cost more than my whole wardrobe?”

Derek’s face turns nervous. “Would it make you feel better if I said no?”

Will sighs. “No.” When Derek starts to look even more uncomfortable, he adds, “I don’t know how to thank you for all of this already, never mind the fancy clothes and the expensive dinner--”

“Will.” It’s quick, but soft. “You don’t have to thank me for being your friend.” He holds up a hand to stop his protests and says, “My moms show affection with money, okay? I know you’re not used to it and I’m sorry it makes you uncomfortable, but they know that I care about you and they want you to know that they care, too.”

Despite the warmth in his chest, alarms start ringing in Will’s head. “Do they know--”

“No, dude,” Derek sounds almost offended, “of course not. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that.”

Will shakes his head. “I know. I’m sorry--”

“But…” he looks sheepish, “I might’ve implied that you couldn’t stay home all summer and they might’ve drawn their own conclusions and I might’ve not bothered to correct them?”

Will drops his head against the door frame. “Derek.”

“I don’t lie to my parents, Will,” he says, soft, apologetic, “not even for you.”

“I know.” Will feels heavy all of a sudden, the five hour bus ride from Samwell (where he stopped to drop off his car and some of his stuff) drained him, and the elation at seeing Derek is gone, now, replaced by the uneasiness of other people knowing what he deals with at home, the potential to be forced to talk about what he thought he left behind in Maine. There’s a reason he’s kept it a secret from most.

“I’m gonna--” he jerks his thumb behind him into the bathroom and Derek nods slowly.

“Take your time.”

Will closes the door behind him and reminds himself that he wants to be here, that Derek is his best friend who also wants him to be here, but carefully does not think about _ why _he’s here. Avoidance isn’t unhealthy so long as he’s aware of it, right?

“So, Will, Derek tells us you’re thinking about playing professionally after college?”

He nods nervously, twirling his fork in his hand. “Yeah, I’ve been considering my options.”

Samira raises an eyebrow. “Have teams been making offers?”

“So far, just the Habs and the Bruins, but I’ve been talking with Detroit and New Jersey.”

Luisa makes an impressed sound. “Mostly local teams, that’s good.” At Will’s shrug, she asks, “Where’s your heart set?”

“Well, Boston is less than four hours from Maine…”

Derek’s moms exchange a glance.

“You want to stay close to home?” Samira asks carefully. 

Will ignores the way his heart rate picks up and doesn’t acknowledge the panicked _ they know they know they know _chorusing in his head. “My little sisters are still in high school and my mom doesn’t want to leave work so I’d like to stick around until they can live on their own.”

“Your family lives with your uncle now?” she clarifies.

“Yama,” Derek says, warning.

Will answers anyway. “Yes. We moved in with him after my dad passed away.”

Derek puts a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Samira says, softly.

At first, Will thinks this conversation is over, but Luisa tilts her head at him, lips pursed. “But would it not make sense for your family to simply follow your career, no matter where it takes you?”

Derek’s hand tightens in time with Will’s chest, and he answers for him. “There’s no guarantees about getting signed or playing a single game in the minors just because he’s in talks with a team, never mind getting an NHL contract. He’s the best player I know, but he can’t risk his family’s safety on a maybe.”

Will flinches at ‘safety’ and Derek shoots him an apologetic look, but the damage is done. His moms are looking at Will like they want to cry, or wrap him in a hug, or maybe both, so he pastes on a brittle smile and says, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom. Be right back.”

He only gets through two careful breath cycles, white knuckling the sink he’s leaning over, letting the familiar scent of Derek’s laundry detergent on his borrowed shirt wash over him, before Derek slips into the bathroom and comes to stand beside him. He watches Will breathe for a moment before he must determine he’s okay with physical contact (Will can’t believe that he knows him well enough to tell) because he grips his shoulder. 

“You okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t interrupt his calculated breathing to reply.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure they knew some topics were off limits.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m good. Just needed a breather.”

“Want me to leave you alone?”

“No,” he blurts quickly, then blushes a deep red. “No, just, give me a minute, I’m okay.”

Derek squeezes his shoulder and says nothing.

It only takes him that one minute to quiet the shaking in his hands and his racing thoughts, and he’s pleasantly surprised that his reflection doesn’t looked haunted. Derek meets his eyes in the mirror and the air around them softens, Will leaning back against him when he brings his arms up to hug him from behind, but he can’t help the way he flinches when the bathroom door opens and a man walks in. Derek starts to pull away, but Will reaches up a hand to squeeze the arm he has wrapped around his chest, and he presses their temples together instead.

Another moment passes before he sends Derek back into the dining room to tell his parents he’s not dead and that he’ll be out in a second (and he knows he doesn’t even have to ask, that Derek will tell his parents to back off the family stuff for now, because Derek always knows what he needs even when he doesn’t know himself).

While Will dries the water he splashed on his face with a paper towel (one that’s soft enough to remind him just how expensive this restaurant is), the man steps up to the sink next to him and meets his eyes in the mirror with a knowing look.

“Meeting the parents for the first time?”

Will huffs a breathless, slightly bitter laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Three nights into his stay at the Amari-Velez residence, Will gets a text at two in the morning, the notification startling him into awareness so fast it makes his head spin. His phone’s ringer is almost always on (he’s never going to miss another call from his mom ever again), but he rarely gets woken up in the middle of the night because of it.

He blinks at the screen, and is confused when he finds a text from Derek.

**Come over**

**Im literally in ur house **he sends back.

**To my room jackass **is the immediate reply, and Will groans into the dark of the guest room because he’s obviously going to give Derek anything he wants, but that means getting out of his warm, cozy bed. 

He taps on Derek’s bedroom door before he opens it slowly, eyes straining in the low light from the diffuser on his bedside table. Derek is lying on his side, facing the door, and even from across the door, Will sees the tension in his jaw.

“What’s up?” Will asks softly.

“C’mere.” 

The reply is so quiet, he almost doesn’t hear it, but he crosses the room and frowns down at Derek, equal parts grumpy and concerned.

“No, like,” Derek untangles a hand from his pile of blankets (is Will imagining the way it shakes?) and grabs Will’s arm, tugging weakly, “c’mere.”

Will freezes. “In your bed?” He hates the way his voice goes high and embarrassed. 

That one night at the end of last semester aside, they don’t sleep in the same bed. Sure, they’ve fallen asleep on each other on the way back from roadies, they’ll curl into each other on Chowder’s floor, the three of them watching a movie, and they have a habit of laying on top of each other when studying, but they don’t purposefully sleep together. 

“No, under the bed,” Derek rolls his eyes, “Yes, obviously.” He pulls his blankets back and looks up at Will expectantly, hopefully, and what’s Will supposed to do but comply?

He settles behind Derek, not quite touching, and waits for him to say something. A few moments of silence pass, but instead of evening out on his way to sleep, Derek’s breaths get faster.

“Hey.” Will reaches out to squeeze his arm, and Derek makes a soft noise. He can’t tell if it’s good or bad, so he starts to pull his hand away, but Derek catches it, holding him in place.

After a beat, Derek starts to explain himself in a furious whisper, “There’s no reason for me to be anxious right now, but my chest hurts and I can’t fucking sleep and whenever this would happen at school I’d just crash in your room but we’re not at school and--” he cuts himself off with something that sounds far too much like a sob.

“Derek, hey,” Will scoots closer until Derek’s back is pressed to his front, and moves his hand from Derek’s shoulder to his chest. “You’re okay, I got you.”

Will feels Derek’s breaths (purposefully full and painfully controlled) move his hand up and down as his heart rate slows, and eventually, he places a hand over Will’s, squeezing gently.

“At school, I guess I...I think I got used to sleeping in your bed,” Derek confesses quietly. “It made me feel, I dunno,” he mumbles, almost sounding embarrassed, “different.”

Will hums against Derek’s neck, aiming for teasing when he asks, “And how did my bed make you feel?” expecting a response like ‘dirty’ or ‘ginger’ or something equally chirpy.

He doesn’t answer right away, and at first, Will thinks he might’ve fallen asleep, but then he brings their joined hands up to his face, and kisses Will’s palm. He almost misses Derek’s reply over the way his heart explodes in his chest.

“Safe,” Derek whispers steadily. “You make me feel safe.”

  
  
  


Two weeks later, the boys are saying goodbye to Derek’s moms at PennStation, and Will is surprised to find that it’s almost as hard as it was to leave his own at the beginning of August.

“Don’t be a stranger, Will,” Luisa breathes into his ear, rubbing his back in a way that makes him feel whole.

Samira echoes the sentiment. “You always have a place here with us,” she tells him, voice as firm as her grip on his forearms. “Don’t forget that.”

He has to clear his throat before he replies, “Thank you. For everything.”

They wave the boys off as the train pulls away, and Derek immediately puts his head on Will’s shoulder, settling in for the three-hour ride.

“My moms adore you,” he says with a smile. 

“The feeling is mutual,” he wraps his arm around Derek’s shoulders. “I hope my mom can make it down for a home game this year; she’d love you.”

Derek hums. “When’s the last time she saw you play?”

“My last game in high school. She stopped coming to games for a while because of chemo but when I made captain junior year, she was there for almost every one.” He can’t help the way his eyes get a little watery; it’s only been three weeks since he’s seen his mom, but it feels longer.

“She sounds like a good mom.”

Will smiles. “The best.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Derek asks, carefully, “What was your dad like?”

His chest tightens, and he has to close his eyes to concentrate on the image of his dad’s face in his head, recalling the light brown hair speckled with gray, the laugh lines that mirror his own, the eyes that read like a book, a window to his soul just like Will’s. 

He doesn’t talk about his dad much, especially with people outside of his family, but something about Derek’s weight against his side, the dull roar of the train speeding over the tracks, the way their seats are removed from the few passengers sharing their car, giving them the illusion of privacy lets the words come freely. So, he talks. He tells Derek about learning to skate by chasing his dad around their local rink, using him for target practice when he was able to hold a hockey stick, playing two-on-one with his brother and their dad always letting them win. He talks about the deployments, the anxiety of never knowing when he’s coming home, the reunions where his dad never cared if Will cried because sometimes he’d cry too. He stumbles his way through how he found out his dad was gone, how it was like the world shifted in that moment and he went from a little boy to a man who had to make sure that his mom wasn’t alone, that his little sisters were safe. He recalls the anger, the grief, the fear, how the bank took their house when the cancer took his mom’s health and it was like one hit after another for a whole year until John took them in. He remembers being fifteen and John telling him that he is to blame for his brother’s death; that Declan could’ve retired earlier had Will’s hockey expenses not grown along with his skill level, he tells Derek that he believed that lie for years. He shares the details of their annual ceremony, bringing their dad’s favorite food to his grave site and having a picnic, eating together as a family. He confesses that he sometimes forgets details, admits how much that scares him. 

“I just really fucking miss him sometimes, you know?” he finishes in a whisper, fighting back tears.

Derek wraps both arms around Will’s shoulders and pulls him into his side, and Will presses his face into his shoulder, curling his hands into his sweater. 

“Thank you for sharing his memory with me,” Derek murmurs into his ear, and Will curls closer to him in response, trying to say ‘thank you for letting me trust you’ without opening his mouth.

They don’t exchange many words for the rest of the journey, but by the time they arrive at the Haus, bags slung over their shoulders, luggage wheeled behind them, Will feels lighter, like some of the pain of his dad’s memory is, if not gone, made easier to bear by the knowledge that Derek knows him, too. 

The semester starts with the same flurry of activity that it always does, but Will takes it all in stride. He’s been strong on the ice and he’s excited about his classes, and at the end of every day, he gets to share a room with his best friend. 

“Derek!” Will shouts into the soft, fluffy rug under his face that he’s now laying on after crashing to the floor, “If you don’t pick up your fucking shoes--”

“Chill, Poindexter,” Derek kicks him in the ribs, gently, then tosses the offending shoes in the direction of his closet. He misses by a good three feet. Will can hear the smirk in his voice when he chirps, “Not my fault you’re clumsy.”

“You motherfucker.” Will grabs Derek’s ankle and tugs until he, too, ends up in a heap on the rug.

Derek grins over his shoulder, mischievous. “Oh, it’s fucking _ on. _”

Will yelps and tries to scramble to his feet, but Derek is faster. He tackles him, arms wrapping around his waist and throwing his weight around until he’s straddling Will’s hips and pinning his hands above his head.

The air feels heavy, suddenly, charged with tension that makes Will’s heart race in a way that’s not unpleasant. He watches the smirk slide off Derek’s face, replaced by something that he can’t quite name, and Will, too aware of how close their faces are, swallows. It’s loud in the stillness of the room.

“Hey, do you guys have my--” Will snaps his gaze to the doorway of their shared bathroom to see Chowder freeze with one foot in the room. “Um.”

Derek regains his composure first, after a beat that’s just this side of too long. “Dexy blamed me for his own clumsiness,” he explains, “so, I sat on him.”

C raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t quite believe them. “Um. Okay.” He blinks at them for a moment, then clears his throat. “Anyway, have either of you seen my gray Samwell hoodie?”

Will shakes himself into awareness. “Oh, yeah.” He bends his knee, bumping it into Derek’s back until he gets the hint and climbs off of him. He stands up like he’s not half-hard in his sweatpants and turns to rummage through a pile of clothes at the end of his bed. “I stole it from you yesterday when my stuff was in the wash, my bad.” He tosses the hoodie to Chowder who catches it while still managing to look at him pointedly. 

“No sweat.” He gestures back toward his room. “I’ll go leave you guys to your...bickering.” Will thinks he hears him mutter ‘flirting’ under his breath as he closes the door behind him, but he can’t be sure.

When he turns to face Derek, he looks completely normal, like he hadn’t been straddling Will on the floor thirty seconds ago, and he tries to not be disappointed by that.

“We should probably go to bed,” Derek says, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. “We have that meeting before practice tomorrow.”

Will nods, jerkily, definitely not upset that his feelings seem to be one-sided because he’s known for a long time that he’s attracted to Derek and the knowledge that he doesn’t feel the same way is not at all surprising. “Yeah, right.”

They get ready for bed in relative silence and tonight it’s Derek who asks first, “Did you take your meds?” and Will who gives the now-standard reply, “Yeah, did you?” 

The charged air from earlier has faded into something soft, familiar, almost comforting and Will wonders when Derek’s presence shifted from rattling to soothing. 

“Goodnight, Will.”

“Goodnight, Derek.”

The next morning, in front of the whole team, Coach Hall, Coach Murray, and Bitty present Will with his jersey, an ‘A’ stamped to the front of the chest, and his jaw drops open.

“What...is this...are you sure?”

“Never been more sure about anything, sweetpea,” Bitty says with a soft smile.

Coach Hall claps him on the shoulder. “Your leadership deserves recognition, Will. We’re real proud of how you’ve developed as a player both on and off the ice. You’ve been fulfilling the role of an assistant captain for a while now, it’s time we made it official.”

The locker room roars it’s praise, guys banging their hands on the benches and shouting encouragement as Will’s blush reaches new shades of red. When the coaches file out, Derek is the first to engulf him in a hug, squeezing so tight it’s almost painful, and it’s just what he needs to make this feel real.

“Holy shit,” he whispers into Derek’s ear.

“Holy shit,” he agrees, just as soft. He pulls back and studies Will’s face, his own breaking into a smile that Will can’t help but mirror. “I’m so fucking happy for you,” he says, and Will knows he means it. “You deserve this.”

They smile and clutch at each other’s forearms for just a beat too long because Lukas drapes himself over Will’s back, screaming, “Fuckin’ right, Dex, let’s go!” and Will knows there will be a playlist made in his honor by the end of the day.

For the next week, any time one of the guys sees him off the ice, they salute dramatically and yell, “Aye, aye, captain!” until the shock of the news has worn off, and Will starts to feel less like he doesn’t deserve the letter, and more like he’s ready to lead his team through a successful season.

The season starts with their home opener at the beginning of October. They’re hosting Union, a team that has been struggling in the last few years, so it’s a good opportunity for the rookies to get their legs underneath them, to start the year with confidence, and they’re not the only ones who could use a confidence boost.

Will has led hockey teams before--he wore the C for two years in high school--but there’s a big difference between captaining an average high school team and being an alternate captain on a ECAC team that sends players to the NHL. He’s not worried about his ability to play this team, but he is a little worried about handling the waffles if they start to freak out the way Will himself so often had his frog year.

His pre-game routine settles him the way it always does, and by the time they take the ice for puck drop, he feels good about his position on this team. The younger guys are counting on him to get them into the right mindset for a good game, and that responsibility allows him to channel the nervous energy into something focused, productive.

“Dex, you take the drop,” Bitty tells him as the red carpet is laid out for the ceremonial pre-game puck-drop.

“What?” Will furrows his eyebrows, confused. That’s the responsibility of the captain, not the alternate. “Why?”

“Because your captain told you to.” He shoves him in the direction of Union’s captain. 

“Just trust him, Dex,” Derek says from his other side. The look on his face makes Will frown.

“Why do I feel like you all know something I don’t?”

Derek shoves him, much harder than Bitty had, and says, “Go, Poindexter, they’re waiting for you.”

He continues to make a face at his teammates, but complies, skating over and nodding at the other captain, before turning expectantly toward the tunnel where tonight’s guest is supposed to appear from.

The lights in the arena change, and the announcer's voice is shouting something that Will can’t quite make out. Then he hears his name.

“...brother has been overseas serving in the United States Coast Guard. Wellies, please give the warmest welcome home to Lieutenant Commander Lucas Poindexter!”

He doesn’t process the words until Luke comes into view, walking down the tunnel in full dress, a wide smile on his face, and Will can’t help the gasp he lets out because _ holy shit he’s here _. He drops his gloves and his stick in one motion, rips off his helmet and lets it clatter to the ice behind him before awkwardly running the five feet of carpet in his skates and throwing himself at his big brother, already sobbing.

“Lou, Lou,” he gasps into his shoulder, “how...how are you…” He wasn't supposed to be home until _Christmas_ and here he is at Will's first game as an NCAA alternate captain, strong arms holding him tight and smelling like home.

“Got leave for two weeks,” he explains in his ear, voice thick and full of emotion, “wanted to surprise you.”

It’s the first time in Luke’s eight years of service that he’s surprised him like this, and what a venue for it. Will is distantly aware of the roaring of the crowd, the sticks taps on the ice and benches from both teams, and becomes abruptly aware of all the cameras on them. He clears his throat and steps back, wiping his face roughly.

“Does-" he has to clear his throat, "does mom know you’re home?”

He nods, sniffing, and gestures to the crowd. “She’s here with the girls.”

Will’s heart jumps in his chest. His family is all here, his mom is here, she gets to see him play.

Luke’s smile turns soft, full of pride. “That ‘A’ looks good on you, bud.”

“Lou,” he whines, wiping at his eyes again.

Luke laughs and nudges him back toward the ice. “C’mon, kid, you’ve got a game to play.”

Will follows his brother’s advice to “light it up, yeah?” and scores twice in the first period, followed by two assists in the second and an assist in the third. He cellys hard, pointing up to where his family is sitting after both goals, and revels in the feeling of Derek’s arms around him, the sound of his waffles screaming in his ear, Chowder slapping him so hard he thinks he’ll bruise. Samwell finishes the game with a 6-2 victory, and Will feels like he’s walking on air. He takes the fastest post-game shower of his life, blushes his way through far too many questions from the press, and all but sprints out of the locker room as soon as he can. He nearly runs into Luke in the hall.

Despite being nearly two inches shorter than Will, Luke lifts him off his feet in their hug, squeezing him so tight he can’t breathe for a moment, and it’s good, grounding. He didn't just dream that homecoming.

“Holy fucking shit, Billy,” Lucas shakes his head when they finally let each other go, “You are so fucking good at hockey.”

Someone responds before he can. “I told you, man.” Will turns, startled, to see Derek walking down the hall toward them. “I told you, he’s the best player on the ice, every game.”

Will is about to protest that comment (has he seen Whiskey play? Or Chowder? Or, fuck, Bully?), but he’s too shocked by the way Derek and his brother bro-hug.

“Hey, man,” Derek slaps Luke on the back, “good to finally meet you.”

“You too. Thanks again for setting this all up. You were right, the look on his face was totally worth it.”

Will blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

They both laugh at him, like they’re in on the same secret, and Will is very, very confused.

Derek takes pity on him. “I know how much you wanted to get your mom down for a game, so I arranged for them to come to the home opener and then I figured why not talk to Luke to see if he could get here, too. We got lucky with the timing.”

Will shakes his head, trying to process. “How did you...I can’t believe you...Derek,” his voice is way too soft, but he doesn’t care, just pulls Derek in for a hug. “Thank you.”

“Billy!” They’re interrupted too soon by a scream, and Will sees his little sisters barreling toward them, stepping out of the hug in time to catch Jess as she launches herself at him, grateful for his strength when Mandy does the same as he suddenly has two fifteen year-olds hanging off his neck. As usual, they’re both talking at the same time.

“I missed you so much” “you were so amazing” “that wrister was _ nasty _” “we get to miss school tomorrow” “did you see my sign” “the plane ride was so cool” “do you think the goalie will sign my puck”.

“Girls,” Will’s mother chides with that gentle smile that he loves, “let him breathe, will you?”

They reluctantly let him go and Will immediately bends down to wrap his mother in a hug, breathing in her familiar perfume, and trying not to cry as she tells him how happy she is to see him playing so well.

She pulls back, cupping his cheeks in her hands and says, “Your father would be so proud of you.”

“God,” Will groans as he once again finds himself wiping at his eyes, “does everyone want me to cry tonight or what?”

They all laugh at him, but he can’t even pretend to be annoyed; he can’t get the smile off his face.

Derek nudges Will aside to greet his mother. “Hi Grace,” he says warmly.

She pulls him in for a hug and he goes willingly. “Derek,” she breathes into his shoulder. “Thank you for everything. Tonight has been perfect.”

“It was my pleasure, really.” He sounds so genuine, Will is honestly going to melt through the floor right here. 

Luke nudges Will from behind. “We better get going,” he tilts his head toward the exit, “I made reservations for nine.”

Will puts the guilt about his brother spending money on him in a box and firmly locks it away. “Good, I’m starving.” He grins at the twins’ loud agreement. 

“Derek," says Luke, "like I said, you’re welcome to join us.”

He waves off the invitation. “Thanks, but I’m gonna go celebrate with the team.” He leans close to Will, fake-whispering, “Gotta make sure the rookies don’t party too hard.”

Will laughs. “Morning skate at eight?”

“Yup.”

Now Will whispers for real. “And the real kegster is still on for tomorrow night?”

Derek grins, mischievous. “You know it.” He reaches out for a fist-bump, carefully bro-y, and Will bats it away, rolling his eyes, and hugs him tightly.

“Thank you.” He swallows, and it’s a little thick. “For everything.” 

Derek’s reply is soft in his ear. “Have fun with your family; you deserve it.”

Later, tucked into a booth at Will’s favorite local restaurant, Luke considers Will with a thoughtful expression when their mom and the girls are in the bathroom. After a moment of scrutiny, he asks, “So, Derek, huh?”

Will winces. “Is it that obvious?”

Luke just looks at him. 

He breathes a nervous huff of laughter. “Okay, yeah, I know.”

“You gonna do something about it?”

“Like what?” Will raises an eyebrow. “Kiss him?”

Luke rolls his eyes. “You could try using your words, Billy.”

“And risk ruining the best friendship I’ve ever had?” He takes a long pull from the beer bottle in front of him. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“That kid is head over heels for you,” Luke says pointedly.

Will pushes down the hope that burns in his chest and shakes his head. “That’s just Derek,” he explains. “He’s just...he’s just like that. This is the kind of stuff he does for his friends.” He bites his lip to keep the smile at bay when he adds, "He's just a really good guy."

Luke gives him another pointed look.

“Seriously, Lou, things are finally really good for us, I’m not gonna do anything to fuck it up.”

“Who says it has to be fucked up?”

“I don’t want to date in the closet!” Will blurts suddenly, the words coming out sharper than he intended, “It’s not fair to him and it’s not fair to me and I don’t want to hide what--”

“Okay, Billy, okay,” Luke’s voice is apologetic, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think...I know I don’t get what it’s like for you and I know it’s not fair and I’m sorry.” He throws an arm around Will’s shoulders even though he’s really not big enough to do that. “I’ll back off.”

Will lets out a long breath. “No, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, a little embarrassed. “”S a sensitive subject, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Alls forgiven,” he says, and Will smiles. That used to be their dad's favorite saying.

“Alls forgiven,” he echoes. 

The girls return to the table and they’re sucked back in to stories about life in high school, giving them relationship advice that boils down to ‘stay away from hockey players--actually, stay away from boys in general’ and Will basks in the family time. He’ll probably have a scar on his arm for the rest of his life, but nights like these remind him why it’s all worth it. His family is safe and happy and healthy, and he’s going to do what he has to to make sure they stay that way.

That night, Derek is already in their room when Will gets back, a little tipsy both from the beer and the good time he had with his favorite people, so he flops next to Derek on his bed, grabs his hand, and kisses the back of it.

“You don’t even _ like _ the military,” he starts, wonder in his voice, still holding Derek’s hand, “I mean, I know ‘don’t like’ isn’t the way to put it but,” he waves his other hand, “you know what I mean. But, you still--you got Luke to come home, to come see me play, you were so nice and I know you don’t--”   
“Will.” Derek squeezes his hand. “You’re a good person. If you say your brother is a good person, I’m gonna believe you.” His expression loses some of the intensity. “Besides, no way was I gonna miss out on the chance to get some embarrassing childhood stories.”

Will blushes. “Did he tell you about the porcupine--”

“Oh, he told me about the porcupine,” Derek confirms, delighted.

Will buries his face into the comforter and groans while Derek laughs at him, but it’s fond.

“Stay here?” Derek mumbles sleepily after they’ve both been quiet for a few moments.

“I’m still wearing jeans,” Will grumbles because he wants nothing more than to fall asleep right now.

“So, take them off,” Derek says easily, like it’s no big deal. “Then stay.”

Will ignores the way his heart starts racing because _ don’t make this weird, Poindexter, you’re just going to sleep _ and he peels of his jeans and, after a brief pause, figures, fuck it, and pulls off his shirt, too.

“Hmm,” Derek hums contently once Will settles back into bed behind him. “D’you take your meds?”

“Mhm, did you?”

“Mhm.” He shuffles around, getting comfortable, and reaches for Will’s hand. “G’night, Dexy. M’glad your fam got to watch you shine today.”

Will strokes his thumb over the back of Derek’s hand while he tries to think of a response. When he finally whispers into the dark of the room, he’s almost certain Derek is asleep.

“I shine the brightest when I’m with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I literally cannot write on a schedule most of this chapter happened in two days and I definitely should proofread more than I did  
Also sooo sorry I haven't responded to comments in a while I promise I will get to them all! Super thankful to all of those who take the time to leave a response, it really means the world to me and gives me the motivation to keep writing!
> 
> If the ending feels rushed that's because it was. I'm worried that the last line is too out of character but also...let Dex be soft. This chapter in general is very soft. I love soft.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this chapter. I hope you all do, too.
> 
> TW: brief discussion of past suicide attempts, depression, pretty graphic panic attack, hockey injury (blood mention)

“Billy, you _ have _to let us watch when he gets there. I want to see his face!”

Derek, on cue, shoulders his way into their room, backpack slung over his shoulders and slightly damp beanie on his head. “Whose face are we seeing?”

Will turns to grin over his shoulder at him, ignoring the fact that he’s wearing his hoodie and _ definitely _ not acknowledging the way that makes his stomach flutter. “Yours, hopefully.” He braces, unsurprised when Derek flops directly onto his back--he is on Derek’s bed, after all--and lets out a quiet “oof”, elbowing Derek until he rolls off of him because he knows he’s supposed to (even though he’d be fine with him lying there for a while. Or forever. You know, whatever).

“Well, you’re in luck, here I am.” He brushes his curls out of his face and smiles widely at the laptop open in front of them and Will can pretend that he’s looking at his sisters on the screen, not Derek’s eyes. “Hello, ladies, how’s the weather up there?”

Amanda rolls her eyes--her usual response to Derek’s outlandish charm--but Jessica giggles and says, “Cold.”

“Not cold enough to keep you from winning counties, apparently.” Derek taps his fist against the camera. “Congrats, Jess.”

She blushes. “Thanks, I’m really nervous about sectionals, though. Hudson’s no joke.”

“You’ll be fine; your team is good enough to almost make me enjoy watching soccer.” He grins wickedly while Jess pouts at him and Mandy laughs brightly. Derek turns to Will and asks, “So, why did we want to see my face?”

Will bites his lip and can feel himself blushing when he replies, “Um, well, I sort of--I have a surprise for you?”

“Oh?” Derek’s eyebrows rise. “What kind of surprise?”

“Let’s call it an early Christmas present.” He rolls off Derek’s bed and pulls out the large box he’d haphazardly shoved under his desk, presenting it to Derek with a sheepish, “Ta-da.”

“Woah, a box? Those are my favorite--”

Will cuts off his sarcasm before it makes him smile too brightly. “Open it, you asshole.”

He laughs and takes the box, setting it on his lap and ripping the tape. He examines the contents with curious concentration, and when he realizes what he’s looking at, he gasps.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, taking out the first book in the stack, “is this--”

“An original copy, yeah. Published in ‘26.”

Derek runs his hand down the copy of Langston Hughes’ _ The Weary Blues _carefully, like he’s holding something precious, and Will knows, to him, he is.

“There are so many in here,” Derek shakes his head in wonder, pulling out a few more books and scanning the titles. One of the covers catches his eye and he laughs. “Oh my god, please tell me this is the original version.” He tilts the book to show Will, who grins.

“Yup, typos and all.”

“The only way to read _ The Eye of Argon _is with the typos.” He pulls out more books, stacking them on the bed next to him as he takes in each one, expression caught somewhere between amazement and excitement. “Where did you get all of these?”

Will sits on the bed next to Derek and joins him in emptying out the box. “We finally started going through my dad’s library collection this summer,” he explains. “He was a lit major for two years before he went back to the Coast Guard so he had, like, thousands of books that we just kept in all these boxes in the attic. The twins took the ones they wanted to read, and I picked out a few I thought you’d like.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and smirks. “‘A few’?”

Will rolls his eyes at Derek’s automatic, ‘chill’ response, and waits for him to say what he’s really thinking. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“These…” Derek trails off, running his hand over the cover of _ To Kill a Mockingbird _, “These were all your dad’s?”

“Yeah. He liked to collect originals, was always saying that ‘the books have their own story separate from the words on the pages’.” Will shrugs. “I never really got that. I think he passed down the wordy genes to the girls and I got my mom’s accountant brain.”

Derek takes the last two books out of the box, then looks at Will hard, like he’s trying to figure something out. “You’re giving these all to me?”

Will shrugs again. “Yeah, I mean, they were just sitting in a box, we don’t--”

“But, they were your dad’s.”

“They were, and now I want you to have them,” he says resolutely. After a brief pause, he adds, in a quiet voice, “I’d like to think he’d want you to have them, too.”

“Will…” Derek trails off again, setting the books aside and tossing the empty box to the floor before wrapping his arms around Will’s neck. “Thank you.”

Will hugs him back tightly. “You’re welcome.” When they pull apart, he adds, a little hastily, “If there are any you don’t want, let me know, I can always donate them--”

“No, I want them all,” Derek says quickly. “You picked these out because you thought I’d like them. They were books your dad liked.” He shakes his head. “I want them.”

They lock eyes for a beat and there’s no way that Will imagines the way Derek’s gaze flicks down to Will’s lips, the movement almost undetectable except for the way Will is dialed in, hyper aware of the lack of space between them, and he _ definitely _sees the way Derek licks his lips. His own suddenly feel dry.

“I told you he’d love them!” Jess’ voice comes gleefully through Will’s computer speakers and he startles hard, shaking his head to clear it.

Did they almost...were they going to--

“Hey,” Mandy interjects, “it was my idea.”

“No,” Will says as he picks up his computer and sets it on his lap, “it was my idea. You two said I was being weird.”

“You were being weird,” Jess says pointedly.

“You’re always weird about Derek,” Mandy agress.

Will’s face is hot. He knows they probably know, but he doesn’t know if they know that him and Derek aren’t--probably won’t ever be--

“Nah,” Derek drawls lazily, “Dexy here is just weird in general.”

Will punches him on the shoulder, an automatic gesture, and tries to school his features into something a little less like a deer caught in headlights.

“Thanks again for shipping the books. I’m hanging up on you now,” he says bluntly, then does just that, ignoring their indignant cries as he closes his laptop and sets it aside.

Derek snorts. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“They called me weird.”

“You _ are _weird.”

“I’m gonna send these books back--”

“No!” Derek clutches the nearest stack to his chest dramatically. “No take backs.” His smile turns shit-eating. “Besides, you wanted me to have these.”

Will just groans.

“No, don’t even dude,” Derek shoves him. “You picked these books out specially for me. That’s like, the softest shit you’ve ever done.”

He cringes. The girls were right, he _ is _weird when it comes to Derek. “If you tell a soul about this, I’m shaving your head in your sleep,” he warns.

Derek grins, delighted, and Will can’t catch him fast enough before he’s off the bed and scrambling through their bathroom, yelling, “Yo, C, guess what Dexy did for me!”

Will flops backwards on the bed, throws an arm over his eyes, and lets himself smile so wide that it hurts. 

* * *

“I can’t believe your dad was a lit major,” says Tango, legs dangling over the edge of the reading room, looking about as high as Will feels.

Slowly, Will lifts his head from where it was resting against Derek’s shoulder and blinks against the bright afternoon sun. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Wasn’t he in the army?”

Derek’s brain works faster and he corrects, “Coast guard.”

“What’s that?”

“Tangs,” Whiskey groans from where he’s sat next to the other tadpole, joint in his hand and trying to catch up to the three of them, “you’re a history major.”

“A _ world _ history major,” he says, then frowns at Will. “Aren’t military guys supposed to be--”

“What?” Will interrupts, and he wants it to be sharp, but the weed slows his words. “Uneducated?”

“No, dude, I just mean--”

Will talks over him. “Because a guy wants to serve his country, he can’t like books?”

Derek pats his arm under the thick blanket they’re both huddled under, trying to survive the bite of the early December air. “Chill, Dexy,” he says, but it’s not patronizing, “Tango gets dumb when he smokes, you know that.”

“Tango is always dumb,” Will grumbles, dropping his head back onto Derek’s shoulder, glaring daggers at the sophomore. “My dad liked books and he also liked helping people. Get over it.”

Derek giggles like he’s been doing non-stop for the past hour (Will has known for a long time that Derek is giggly when he’s high, but because he’s a masochist, he still agrees to join him) and he echoes, “Get over it.”

“You hate the military,” Whiskey deadpans, and Will almost regrets letting him smoke with them. He likes Whiskey, he’s been much less of an asshole to Will since he got the A, but if he turns this pleasant winter afternoon into an argument about privilege--

“I don’t hate Dex’s family,” Derek replies, still smiling.

“Why do you hate the military?” Tango asks.

“He’s black, dude,” Will says bluntly, and Derek pinches him.

“You know it’s more complicated than that.” 

“Yeah, but Tangs is an idiot.” Will snatches the joint from Whiskey, preventing Tango from grabbing it, and continues, “And he’s definitely too high to have a real conversation about this.”

Derek, predictably, giggles, “So am I.” He tries to grab the joint from Will, who holds it just out of reach, rolling his eyes when Derek pouts at him. 

“Dude, you are so ripped right now.”

He giggles again. “Ch’yeah I am.”

Whiskey takes the joint back, takes a hit, then says, much more hesitantly than Tango had, “I thought most of your beef was with the police.”

“Well, yeah,” Derek shrugs, “Only takes getting tackled by an officer when you’re thirteen one time to give you lifelong trauma.”

Will startles, turning to meet Derek with a horrified expression. “What?”

“Oh,” he waves a flippant hand, “My step-mom called nine-one-one after my first attempt,” Derek won’t stop fucking giggling and Will suddenly feels stone cold sober, “and when the cops got there, they pinned me to the floor.”

There’s a beat of horrible, choking silence.

“Fuck,” Whiskey is the first to respond, “That’s some shit, bro.”

Derek just shrugs again, and Will tries to voice a terrifying thought. 

“Your…” he chokes a little, “you said your first attempt?”

“Yeah.” If Derek doesn’t stop laughing, Will is honestly going to start fucking crying. “Definitely the least creative of all them.”

“Nursey--_ Derek _ ,” Will grips his forearms, hard, searching his face--for what, he doesn’t know. “Do you want to be telling us all this?” he asks because he knows, _ knows _that Derek doesn’t let this part of himself out around just anyone, doesn’t normally let his chill slip like this, and these are their frogs, but still. “You’re really fucking high right now.”

Another shrug. “Nah, s’fine. It’s chill. Important to talk about mental health, set a good example for the kids and all that.” He waves a vague hand and laughs a little. “Trying to kill yourself is not a good example, kids.”

Whiskey snorts. “Noted.”

“Are you, like, okay?” Tango asks, sounding uncertain and a little scared.

Derek blinks, slowly, then smiles brightly and says, “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die.”

There’s a moment of silence which Will breaks with a disbelieving, “Did you just quote poetry at us?”

“You recognized it!” Derek says, delighted. “It was in one of the poetry collections from your dad.”

“Derek,” Will says again, uselessly, before deciding to let his actions do the talking and draps himself over his partner, wrapping his limbs around Derek and pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders as if to shield him from anyone or anything that could ever bring him harm--including himself. 

Derek, of course, giggles. “I love that you’re so cuddly when you’re high.”

“He’s always that cuddly with you,” Whiskey notes evenly, ignoring the glare that Will shoots him in response. 

Derek just cuddles closer. “Yeah, I know,” he says smugly. “It’s because I’m his favorite.”

“You _ are _my favorite,” Will tells him, because it’s true, but also because it feels especially important after what Derek just told him. 

“So, like,” Tango makes a face, “did you get put in a mental ward?”

“Anthony,” Will snaps in his Captain Voice, and the sophomore shrinks a little. Good. There’s a line between curiosity and insensitivity, and Tango crosses it too often.

“I’m not talking about that.” Derek doesn’t laugh this time, and Will turns to look at him, finding a dejected frown on his face. “This high doesn’t feel all that fun anymore,” he mumbles, and Will is honestly going to push Tango off the roof.

Whiskey cuffs Tango in the back of the head with a soft, “Idiot,” and offers Derek the fading joint with a tight, apologetic smile. “Here, bro, you take the last hit.”

Derek’s frown deepens. “I don’t want it.”

And, okay, Will needs to get him out of here. He’s only had to deal with Derek’s weed-induced paranoia once, luckily his usual reaction is giddiness, but it was bad enough to never want to watch his friend go through that again.

“Hey, Der,” Will nudges him gently, “I bet if we ask nice, Bitty will make us those peanut butter cookies that you like.”

Derek’s face lights up again, despair forgotten. “The ones with the chocolate inside?”

“Sure,” he says easily. He’ll make them himself if he has to. He starts to pull him toward the window, carefully, because he has nightmares about this boy falling off the roof with all the time they spend out here. “C’mon.”

Tango starts to follow them, the promise of cookies too hard to ignore, but Whiskey grabs his wrist firmly and hauls him back to a seated position. Will shoots him a grateful look and tries to ignore the knowing one he gets in response. 

They make it safely down the stairs and walk into the kitchen to find all the waffles sitting at the table, loudly discussing something that Will doesn’t pretend to understand. 

“Ugh,” Bitty makes a face at Will and Derek’s entrance, “y’all smell like skunks. At least wash your hands before you sit down.”

Derek laughs. “Okay, mom.”

In a few moments, they’re sat at the table (after kicking Louis out of his chair because seniority), eating Bitty’s latest vegan experiment, and even Will has to admit they’re pretty good--though that might be the high talking more than his taste buds.

(He’s also going to blame the fact that he’s stoned for the way that the weight of Derek in his lap is distracting him from whatever Hops is trying to ask him about).

(It’s definitely the weed.)

(There are no feelings involved here.)

(None.)

They’re coming down from their highs some time later, curled together on the bottom bunk where Will has been absently tracing letters into Derek’s back, when Derek finally offers the information that Will has been too afraid to ask.

“I think my first attempt was the most traumatic,” he says slowly, “but my last was the most dangerous.”

Will waits a beat to make sure his voice will come out evenly before he says, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I know. I want to.” Even as he says it, he curls in on himself a little, so Will moves his hand from Derek’s back to his chest and presses his forehead to his shoulder blade, hoping the physical touch grounds him or, at the very least, brings him some comfort.

It’s a long moment before Derek speaks again. “I, uh, I don’t ever really talk about how scary it was...I don’t, I dunno, I don’t like to admit that I was scared because, like, if I wanted to die what could I possibly have been scared about, right?” He laughs humorlessly, and Will is _ not _going to cry. “But, uh, yeah, it was...it was terrifying.” His voice cracks a little, but he continues, “And I guess by now I know it wasn’t selfish or cowardly or whatever, but when I think about what I put my family through--” he exhales, long and shaky.

Will holds him a little tighter. “It wasn’t your fault, Derek.”

“Maybe not,” he allows, “but my sister handled my parents’ divorce just fine. I tried to swallow a bottle of pills.”

“Derek--” Will cuts himself off, lest he start crying and make him feel worse.

“And it’s fine, you know, I’m better now and it’s been years since my last attempt... but sometimes it still feels like I’m a few bad days away from being back in that headspace and I know that’s not true, not even close, but just the thought--it’s so _ fucking _scary, I can’t--”

“Okay, okay, come here.” Will tugs on Derek’s arm until he rolls over, then wraps his arms tightly around him and pulls him into his chest. 

Derek’s not crying, not really, but Will feels like _ he _might start if Derek keeps talking.

“Sorry, sorry,” Derek sniffs and rubs a hand over his face, “I actually am okay, like, I don’t--I’m not suicidal, I swear,” he laughs at himself again, then clears his throat. “I’m not letting Tango buy weed ever again.”

Will laughs with him, a little breathless, and agrees, “It feels like my emotions took a check from Louis.”

“Or a slapper from Wicks,” Derek groans, “What the fuck.” He sighs, then, rolling so he’s less curled into Will and more laying next to him, and says, “We should probably go check on our frogs.”

“Hmm,” Will pulls Derek back against him. “Alternatively, we could text them to make sure they’re still alive, and stay here and watch Brooklyn Nine Nine until the both of us stop shaking.”

“Hey.” Derek sits up with a worried frown. “Are you--did I...that wasn’t too much, was it?”

Will's expression melts. “No, Derek, c’mere, you’re fine.” He pulls him back down. “Someone looks at me the wrong way and I start shaking, you know that,” he says, huffing a laugh at himself.

“That’s not true, not anymore,” Derek reminds him.

“Still. I’m good.” He squeezes Derek’s hip. “And I’m really glad you felt like you could tell me.”

“I feel like I can tell you anything,” he replies softly, and Will’s face burns with the force of his blush.

“Good.” He turns to smile at Derek and carefully does not panic at the proximity of Derek’s lips to his own. “Me too.”

Derek smiles back. “Good.”

* * *

Will wakes up one hour before his alarm for the third morning in a row and considers the fact that maybe the pressure of the season is starting to get to him. 

He only stayed home for ten days over the holidays, long enough for his mom’s warmth to flood his chest, his sister’s antics to make his ribs sore from laughing so hard, his brother’s terrible advice to make him wonder why he even tries to talk to him about Derek, and his Uncle’s fists to remind him why he chose to return to Samwell so early.

His suspicions about his sisters were right; they know he’s into guys and couldn’t care less, and he didn’t even have to ask them to keep it from John.

“We’re young, Billy, not stupid,” Mandy had rolled her eyes at him when he’d started to panic after the girls overhead a FaceTime session with Derek that ended with them confessing how much they missed each other. “We don’t care if you like boys.”

“Especially not that boy,” Jess had agreed, earning a pinch on the arm from Mandy. “What? He’s cute.” 

He’d laughed, red in the face, but made sure to tell his sisters, “I love you guys, you know that, right?”

They’d both pretended to vomit and promptly left his room, but the hugs he got from them when he left to return to Samwell said everything he needed to hear.

He’s happy, his grades are good, his stats are higher than they’ve ever been, but there’s something gnawing at him, an itch under his skin that he can’t quite shake, a restlessness that has him staring at the ceiling a full hour before he has to wake up for practice. 

He knows if he asked, Derek would give him a deadpan, “Your uncle beats you, Will, and you’re counting on nothing but hockey to get you out of that situation” and then he would feel bad for the bluntness and offer some really good advice that Will would ignore, but since Will lies about having any new bruises from winter break, there’s nothing to even ask about. As far as anyone knows, things at home are just fine. 

And they are. Fine, that is.

Will is a twenty-one year-old athlete seriously considering playing in the National Hockey League in the very near future. He’s not a baby. He’s also not stupid. As long as his family’s well-being relies on their relationship with John, he’s going to keep his mouth shut and his fists to himself. 

One day, Will thinks bitterly as he stares at the cracks in the ceiling and focuses on the sound of Derek’s slow breathing, hoping it lulls him back to sleep. One day, he won’t have to bite his tongue or clench his fists. One day, he’s gonna swing back.

Just not today. 

* * *

  
  


Will is brushing his teeth when he realizes something is wrong.

He and Derek have been rooming together for almost eight months now and they have their morning routine down to a science; Will uses the bathroom while Derek slowly drags himself out of bed, then stumbles in half-asleep and takes over the sink space, grumbling a greeting that doesn’t turn into actual words until Will brings him coffee with exactly four spoonfuls of sugar and enough almond milk to mask the taste of coffee.

But when he shuts off the sink on this particular morning, Will doesn’t hear a peep from their bedroom.

He towels off his hands and face and steps into their room to find the light still off, and Derek under his blankets. 

He sighs. “Hey, man, get up. We have to leave in fifteen.”

There’s no response from the mound of blankets.

“Derek.” Will flicks the light on, squinting at the harsh brightness. “C’mon, up.”

Still nothing.

He frowns, now, concerned, and crosses the room to stand next to Derek’s bed. 

“Hey,” he says, softer this time, “Are you okay?”

There’s a quiet noise that is definitely not a confirmation as Derek rolls over to face him. Will’s breath catches a little at the emptiness in Derek’s expression, notes the dark circles under his eyes and the gray tint to his skin.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he sits at the edge of the bed and puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Don’t feel good.” 

Will lets his fingertips brush his collarbone, soothing, the need to protect so sudden and fierce it startles him. “What hurts?” he asks quietly.

Derek shakes his head again. “Not--” his voice catches, and he swallows with a wince. “It’s not that.”

The words sound like they’re being dragged out of him, and abruptly Will realizes what this is.

“Is it a gray day?”

Derek told him once, at the end of last year, what happens when his depression gets bad, how it feels like he’s been swallowed whole and sucked dry, left dead tired and empty.

_ “It’s like everything is gray,” he’d explained, legs thrown across Will’s, half-hanging off his bed, “My emotions are gray, my head is gray, everything tastes gray, the world looks gray.” He’d laughed then, the sound twisting something in Will’s chest. “I wish it was as easy as being sad; at least then I’d feel anything at all.” _

Derek opens his eyes and they’re shining when he nods once, slowly, then lets out another choked off noise.

“Hey, no, Derek, baby, it’s okay, don’t cry.” Will carefully ignores the internal panic at letting the pet name slip out, just continues to rub Derek’s shoulder. “What can I do?”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes again, a few tears slipping down his cheeks and Will takes a breath, needing Derek to believe he feels more ready to handle this than he actually is.

“Okay, that’s okay, I got you. If I ask you a question, can you nod or shake your head for me? It’s okay if you don’t know the answer.” When Derek nods, Will asks, “Do you need me to stay here with you?” because it’s obvious that Derek isn’t going to practice this morning, and Will would skip in a heartbeat if Derek asked him to.

After a moment, Derek shakes his head.

“You sure you’d feel safe here all alone?”

He nods.

“Okay.” He wracks his brain, trying to come up with the right questions. “Do you want to share a protein bar with me before I have to leave?”

He gets no response this time other than the tightening of Derek’s jaw and another tear escaping the corner of his eye.

Will strokes his cheek. “How about some water? Just a few sips, then you can go back to sleep, okay?”

“Practice,” Derek croaks miserably, “and classes.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Coach and we can email your professors later, just worry about you right now.” He brushes a few curls from Derek’s face. “C’mon, sit up for a second.”

Derek drinks a few sips of the water Will offers him and takes his morning meds, then burrows back under his comforter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as Will is pulling on his shoes. It’s so quiet and ashamed that Will feels his heart crack a little.

“Hey, no, Derek,” he crouches by his head and strokes his cheek again, “Der, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Feels like I do,” comes the choked reply.

Will smiles sadly. “I know,” he says, because he’s intimately familiar with the misplaced guilt. “Try to get some sleep, okay? C is gonna come check on you after practice and I’ll be back right after calc.” 

Derek frowns, the smallest shift in his face. “Networking?”

“I can skip for the day, attendance doesn’t count,” that’s a lie, but he doesn’t want to make Derek feel worse. “Besides, you’re more important.”

Derek closes his eyes again. “Will,” it sounds pained.

“Shh,” Will leans in, slowly, and presses his lips to Derek’s forehead before he can talk himself out of it. “Go to sleep. I’ll be back.”

  
  


Will is surprised he makes it through practice without seriously injuring himself or anyone else.

The guys joke about him “missing a limb”, but it’s more than just missing his partner on his right. Hops is a great player, but he’s no where near Nursey’s level, and he doesn’t expect him to be, so it’s whatever. But knowing that Derek is back in their room suffering because of his depression when he should be on the ice getting ready for the playoffs _ hurts. _

He knows Derek is probably just sleeping, knows that when his brain fucks him up like this, sometimes the only thing he can do is sleep, but that doesn’t stop the worry, the fear that Will needs to be there for him instead of mindlessly running through drills or solving the same type of problem sets for seventy-five minutes straight.

He all but runs back to the Haus after class, rereading Chowder’s text, “He’s sleeping!”, until his heart stops beating so fast. 

Still, when he carefully enters their room and sees Derek right where he left him this morning, he lets out a long breath.

He’s safe.

Will is startled by how much he needs that to be true; how much he wants Derek to be safe and healthy and happy and loved.

_ God, _ he berates himself, _ now is so not the time for this. _

Tucking any mushy or world-altering feelings firmly to the back of his mind, Will crosses the room and rests a gentle hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispers, “you awake?”

“No,” Derek mumbles, voice scratchy.

Will’s lips twitch. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

“Mhm.” He grabs Will’s arm, grip weak. “C’mere.”

He smiles for real this time. “Of course, just let me change real quick.”

Moments later, Will is slipping into Derek’s bed and wrapping his arms around him, trying not to acknowledge the panicked ‘should I make him drink more water, eat something, get out of bed? Do I need to call someone? Is this too much? Is it not enough?”. Derek has been through this too many times to count, Will knows, and he trusts that he knows what he needs.

And apparently, what he needs is Will cuddling him.

He’s hardly going to complain about that. He feels like that’s what he needs right now, too. Derek is here, he’s in his arms, he’s safe. 

  
  


They wake to the sound of a phone ringing. 

It’s Derek’s, Will realizes as he blinks the sleep from his eyes and sits up. A glance at the caller ID reveals that his mama is calling, and that they slept for almost four hours.

Will should definitely make Derek eat something now, right?

He rubs his shoulder. “Hey, Derek.”

He gets a sleepy grumble in response. 

“Your mom is calling,” he tells him, voice a little louder.

Derek doesn’t move.

“Der, babe, c’mon, she’s gonna worry.” 

Will barely resists the urge to slap a hand over his mouth. God, what is _ wrong _with him?

Mercifully, Derek just grumbles again, then untangles a hand from under his blankets and slaps it around blindly in the direction of his phone. Will puts it in his hand.

“‘Lo?” Derek listens for a moment before saying something in Spanish, and Will can hear how much effort he puts into pronouncing the syllables, forcing his voice to come out clearly. He knows that Derek’s moms know all about his mental health, but he also knows the lengths Derek goes to hide it from them when he’s struggling. Not that Will can say anything about that without being a huge hypocrite.

Their conversation continues for several moments, and while Will has no idea what he’s saying, the cadence of his voice is nice, soothing. He hears his name several times and tries not to think too hard about what that means. 

When Derek hangs up, he tosses his phone aside, rolls over, and presses his face into Will’s chest.

“You stayed,” he says softly.

“Course I did. I told you I would.” He scratches lightly at the base of Derek’s neck, smiling at the content hum he gets in response, then asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

Will frowns. “Any better than this morning?”

“I can mostly form sentences now, so that’s an improvement.” He rubs a rough hand over his face. “Still feels like my brain is mush, though.”

“Well we’ve been sleeping for a while, we should probably eat something.”

“Ugh,” Derek makes a face.

“I can cook,” Will offers.

Derek shakes his head. “Don’t bother, I won’t taste it.”

“Not even if I make it white-boy spicy?”

That earns him a huff of laughter. “Especially not if you only make it white-boy spicy.” He sighs. “I so don’t want to make food decisions right now.”

“Okay, tell you what,” Will checks his watch, “the vegan food truck in North Quad is still open, I can run over there and--”

“No,” Derek cuts him off quickly and grips the front of his shirt, “stay.” He clears his throat. “I mean, please, stay?”

Will makes a soft noise and pulls Derek close as his heart all but melts in his chest and assures him, “Yeah, babe-uh, bro, of course.” He takes out his phone and tries to concentrate on the words he’s typing instead of the panic alarms going off in his head because he’s aparently incapable of shutting his _ fucking _mouth. “Okay, there, I’m making the waffles get us food.”

Derek makes a disbelieving noise. “How?”

“I’m their authority figure.”

“Those kids have zero respect for authority,” Derek deadpans.

Will laughs, caught, then says, “I just said it was for you.” He runs a gentle hand down Derek’s back. “The guys were all pretty worried about you this morning.”

Derek bites his lip. 

“Hey, no,” Will taps the bottom of Derek’s chin, encouraging him to lift his gaze, taking note of the dullness still present in his eyes. “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad, I just...they care about you a lot.” He swallows hard, gathering his courage, then whispers, “I care about you a lot.”

He carefully does not move his gaze from Derek’s eyes to his lips because now is not the _ time, _dammit, but then Derek leans in, painfully slow, and presses his lips to Will’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispers against his skin.

“Got your back.” Will wraps his arms around Derek and hooks his chin over the top of his head, lest he do something ridiculous like kiss him back.

  
  


It doesn’t come apart until the following night. 

Derek claimed he was feeling better that morning, but it wasn’t until he was in the locker room surrounded by his rambunctious teammates that Will started to see some of the life return to his eyes. He kept up his ‘chill’, laughed at the right times, but he was definitely still off on the ice, his movements slower and less accurate than usual. The coaches didn’t comment, familiar enough with Derek’s mental health to know that he’ll be one-hundred percent by the end of the week.

Will knows this, too, so that’s not the reason he’s awake and staring at his wall at one in the morning on Thursday instead of resting for their seven a.m practice. No, the reason has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the way Will acted like a total fucking moron yesterday.

Not one, not two, but _ three _pet names slipped out of his mouth when Derek was too not-himself to chirp him (or punch him in the face) and on top of that, he kissed his forehead! Without asking! Who does that?

Derek’s kiss on the cheek made sense; Will has seen him plant one on Chowder and Bitty to say ‘thank you’ on several occasions, it’s just something he does, it didn’t mean anything. 

But Will definitely meant something when he pressed his lips to Derek’s skin. He meant, “I see you, I’m here for you, it’s going to be okay, I got your back,” but he could’ve just _ said _all of those things instead of kissing his teammate like a fucking idiot.

Derek hasn’t mentioned the kiss or the pet names, things have been normal--if a little muted as a result of Derek’s low energy--between them today, but Will feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wishes he would just _ say _ something already; yell at him or chirp him or hit him or _ something. _

He hasn’t fought with Derek, not for real, since freshman year, but he knows he deserves to be yelled at for the way he acted yesterday. He took advantage of his friend when he was at his most vulnerable because of his own stupid feelings.

God, Derek is probably so uncomfortable around him now, probably doesn’t trust him anymore, definitely won’t want Will to be there for him when he has another bad day, won’t want to spend the good ones with him either and what will that mean for their living situation? Should he offer to move out? He could maybe renovate the basement? It’s not like he can afford to go anywhere else but he’s not going to take the Haus away from Derek, Derek who was just hoping his friend would be there for him instead got _ kissed _ and--fuck, _ fuck. _

Will sits up as his breath catches in his throat and he abruptly realizes just how close he is to a full-blown panic attack and jesus _ fuck _, really? He was overbearing and creepy and now he’s going to play the victim and panic?

No, fuck that. He’s going to sit here and breathe and get over this and _ not _ wake up his roommate who definitely needs the sleep and it’s fine, he’s not even shaking that hard, he’s _ fine _.

Nausea sweeps through his stomach, sudden and painful, and he can’t help the whimper he lets out, pulling his knees into his chest. It’s been months since his last panic attack, though he knows it was only a matter of time with how stressed he’s been recently, and he forgot how much it hurts. 

Maybe...maybe he should wake Derek? He’s always telling him that he needs to open up, that he doesn’t have to suffer alone, and he hears the same from his therapist once a week so objectively he knows that’s the right thing to do.

But, no, Derek wasn’t doing well yesterday, Will can’t expect him to come to his rescue every time he gets a little nervous.

_ Stop, _ he tells himself sternly, _ you have an anxiety disorder and sometimes you need support. Derek is your friend (maybe, definitely, probably-- _ stop) _ and he can help you. _

“Derek?” his voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “Derek, are you up?”

There’s rustling from under him, then a pause. “Yeah.”

Shit, that reply was definitely clipped, he probably doesn’t want to talk to him, he shouldn’t--

He has to throw a hand over his mouth when his next breath comes out in a gasp.

“Derek,” he pleads, but the following words are lost in the struggle for air, and he presses his forehead into his knees, trying to muffle his frantic breathing.

“Will?” There’s more rustling, then the sound of the floorboards creaking under Derek’s feet. “What are you--oh.” He must catch sight of Will, then, curled in the far corner of his bed against the wall, shaking apart. “Shit, okay, hang on, I’m coming.”

Will can’t find the breath to warn him to be careful, can’t think past the panic well enough to worry about him falling as he climbs onto the top bunk with him, can’t feel anything but relief when Derek puts a hand on his arm. 

“What do you need?”

Will covers Derek’s hand with his own, and because he’s the best person Will knows, he gets it immediately, wasting no time before he scoots closer, wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. His gasping breaths turns into gut-wrenching sobs as the guilt for making Derek do this for him after he was so stupid yesterday crushes him, and he bites down hard on the heel of his palm to muffle them.

“Hey, no,” Derek gently pulls Will’s hand from his face. “Don’t do that. It’s okay, let it out, I’m here.”

“I know,” he wails miserably, “I know--that’s why--”

“Oh, Will.” He tightens his arms around his shoulders. “I’m here, it’s okay, I got your back.”

Will shakes his head because he _ shouldn’t _be here, he doesn’t deserve--

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Derek is saying, and Will cries harder. Of course he heard those pet names and now he’s just making fun--

“Easy, Will, c’mon, you’ve gotta slow it down, you’re gonna make yourself sick.” He shifts so he can take Will’s face in his hands, but Will can’t meet his eyes, body shaking with the force of his sobs. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, face inches from his own.

Will tries to twist away, he can’t be this close to Derek after what he did--

Derek’s grip is firm. “Breathe.” He takes one of Will’s hands in his own, moves it to his chest so he can feel it move as he breathes, deliberately slow. “Just like me.”

It takes longer than it should, Will has been in therapy for over a year, he’s better than this, but eventually, he’s matching Derek’s breaths and the tears have stopped completely. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, shrugging out of Derek’s arm and wrapping his own around his knees, feeling empty and exposed, but too guilty to let Derek continue to comfort him.

He gives Will a look. “You don’t have to apologize.”  
Will just shrugs, not ready to broach the subject of just how much he has to apologize for, the tremors in his hands not yet slowing. 

After a moment of silence, Derek says, “That was a bad one.” It’s not judgemental, but it still makes Will wince, and he lets out a small, involuntary noise because that _ was _bad, and it hurt, and it was scary, and he feels awful.

Derek puts a hand on his arm. “You feeling sick?”

Will rests his forehead on his arm and nods.

“Want to move this party to the bathroom?”

He shakes his head without lifting it, hoping if he just sits here and breathes, it’ll go away. He feels Derek shift closer and lets out a long exhale when he presses their shoulders together, lightly, like he’s not sure if Will wants him here, and that’s--he can’t handle that.

“I’m sorry, Derek.”

“I told you, you don’t have to--”

“No.” Will lifts his head, and uses his sleeve to roughly wipe his face. “Yesterday, I--” he coughs, trying to prevent his chest from tightening again, “I was too much and you couldn’t--you weren’t...I’m sorry.”

Derek just blinks at him. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Derek, come on. I fucking kissed your forehead when you weren’t yourself, I didn’t even ask--”

“So, what, you think you took advantage of me?” Derek turns to look at him, but Will can’t meet his eyes. “Is that what this was about?”

“I _ did _take advantage--”

“How about you let me decide that for myself?” The reply is sharper than Derek has been with him in a long time, and Will sinks in on himself despite knowing he deserves it.

“Will, look at me.”

He does, after a beat, because he owes Derek at least that, and is surprised to find him looking incredulous and a little sad. 

“You are so, so stupid,” Derek sighs, reaching out a slow hand to cup Will’s jaw. He just studies his face for a moment, before he shakes his head slightly and smiles a little. “You were perfect yesterday. I don’t know how you could tell exactly what I needed, but you did, and I didn’t mean to make you think otherwise.”

Will shakes his head. He doesn’t know if he can accept that. “But I--”

“Did you miss the part where I kissed you, too?”

“You’ve kissed Bitty,” he says, a little accusingly.

“_ Will, _ ” Derek pleads, “please tell me you understand how that’s different. How _ you _are different.”

The way he’s looking at him… Will feels small, smaller than he has in his whole life, but also incredibly safe, too; like nothing bad can happen to him as long as Derek’s eyes are on his and his thumb is gently running across his jaw.

He takes Derek’s free hand in one of his own and he has to ask, “Are you sure?”

“More sure than I’ve been about anything.”

“Derek…” he whispers into the space between their lips, a space that Derek starts to close.

“Is this okay?” he asks, still moving in, impossibly slow.

And Will...Will has to pull back and shake his head. “I um--” he swallows with a grimace, “I have to throw up.”

After that, they just...they don’t talk about it.

It’s not awkward, or stifled, or tense, there’s just no time to ‘DTR’. There’s playoff hockey in the middle of midterm exams, then more playoff hockey because they’re winning, and they just keep winning, and a championship is looming over their heads, the pressure of _ needing _this for their captain, for themselves, so strong it’s sometimes overwhelming.

When that happens, when the adrenaline doesn’t fade after a game, when one of them is still shaking long after their muscles have rested from that morning’s practice, they climb into bed together, limbs tangled, and hold on tight. There’s no need for words when it’s this easy. 

They don’t kiss, but they touch, hug, and hold, share smiles, and jokes, and food, experience fear, and exhilaration, victory. They’re closer than they’ve ever been and Will has no doubt that when the craziness of playoffs dies down, they’ll say what they need to, and everything will work out. He knows this the same way that he knows he loves his mother and he hates brussel sprouts. It just is.

And then it’s regionals and they’re playing Quinnipiac--it’s always, he’ll think sometime later, fucking Quinnipiac--and play is happening almost too fast to keep track of. Samwell has made it this far because they’re the fastest team in the league but holy _ shit _these guys are giving them a run for their money.

It’s the third period, and Samwell is up by one, but the Bobcats are dirty in their desperation, not ready to let go of their season without a fight. Will has been getting hit and hitting back all night and this one isn’t even bad. He’s aware of the winger closing in on him on the backcheck, sees him from the corner of his eye as he waits for someone to get open, so he has more than enough time to get out of the way, avoiding the worst of the impact. 

He doesn’t realize what happens, at first. One second, he’s turning away from a hit, the next, he’s tripping over a stick and something hard hits the left side of his neck. The pain is immediate, blinding, but that’s not as scary as the wetness that starts to pour down his jersey. He tosses his gloves and stick aside, pressing a hand to his neck and wills himself to not pass out when he feels how sticky it is, scrambling to his skates and throwing himself across the ice to the Samwell bench because now he knows exactly what happened and it's bad, oh my god, this is bad. 

The boys have the door open for him, and one of the trainers grabs his arm, replacing his hand with a towel that presses against him so firmly, he thinks he might fall over. Will is distantly aware of the bench losing their shit, swearing and yelling and gasping, and he wants to tell the guys that he’s okay, to focus on the game, but he’s being pulled down the tunnel, the team doctor striding ahead of him while Davey reminds him to breathe.

There are voices shouting around him for what feels like a long time, but is probably only seconds, before the doctor is slowly removing the towel with gloved hands.

“How bad?” he grits out when the doctor has been studying his neck silently for a beat too long. 

“No nicked arteries, though I don’t understand how, given the location of the laceration,” he reports with a frown. “It looks like the skate punched your neck more than sliced it.”

Dave pats him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be fine, Will, we just have to stitch you up.”

He doesn't let the relief land before he blurts, “Can I play?”

“No,” the doctor responds at the same time Davey says, “There’s only three minutes left.”

“What about next week?” he asks, because the team is not losing this game--they’re _ not. _

“That depends on how fast this heals,” says Davey as he dabs some antiseptic on the wound, giving him an apologetic look when Will swears at the sting of it. “Last thing we need is you popping a stitch and bleeding out on the ice.”

“It’s the Frozen Four, Dave,” Will deadpans.

“It’s your literal life,” he shoots back, but something in Will’s face makes him soften slightly. “You should be fine to play as long as you take it easy this week, okay?”

"Okay," he says through gritted teeth as the pull of the needle on his neck makes him wonder just how much of this he can take before he passes out.

The answer is a lot, thankfully, because soon enough the wound is cleaned, stitched, and dressed, and Dave helps him out of his gear with strict instructions to not move, which means Will is left alone to think about how easily he could’ve just _ died._

He's never seen someone get cut with a skate before, though he knows it's something that happens. They wear a shit ton of protective equipment to prevent injuries like this, but, of course, accidents happen, and he knows that player didn't mean to slice his neck open, but shit, _shit, _that could've been so bad.

He's broken out of his spiral by a fully-dressed Derek, looking even more upset than Will feels.

“Oh, fucking fuck, thank _ fuck _ ,” Derek breathes as he sweeps into the room, tossing his gloves and bucket to the floor so he can put his hands on Will’s biceps and squeeze. “God, Will, I thought you fucking _ died, _there was so much blood, it took them forever to clean the ice, the coaches wouldn’t send someone back to check, I thought--” he cuts himself off, and Will realizes it’s because he’s crying.

“Hey, no, Derek, it’s okay, I’m okay,” he reaches up with his right hand (he quickly realized he can’t move his left without pulling at the stitches) and cups Derek’s jaw. “They gave me a few stitches but I’m fine, I got lucky.” He only realizes the truth of those words as he says them.

Derek covers Will’s hand with his own. “Fuck, Will, I was so scared. I was so scared for you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Will croaks, and now there are tears in his eyes, too.

“Fuck, shit, I’m sorry,” he takes both of Will's hands and sits next to him on the gurney, “you just got sliced by a skate blade and here I am, crying like it was my neck.”

“No, it’s--” Will tries to shrug, wincing when the pain makes him immediately regret it, “it’s nice that--I mean, it means you care.”

“Will,” Derek moves their joined hands to Will’s jaw and says, “of course. Of course I care. You have to know how much I care.”

When he pictured this moment--and he’s not going to talk about how often he’s pictured it over the last few months (years, if he’s being honest)--he always thought it’d be Derek making the first move, that his confidence in who he is would make it easy for him to lean in and press their lips together. Will never thought he’d be so sure of his connection with someone, so confident that this is what’s right, that he’d be the one to close the gap and initiate the kiss.

But he does. And it's easy. Because it's Derek. 

It's chaste, and they both exhale shakily when their lips part, but then Will leans in again, and again, and the trust he has in their relationship transfers into the kiss until they’re both smiling, forced to pull apart lest they clack their teeth together. 

“I can’t believe it took me almost dying to finally get the balls to kiss you.”

Derek laughs, and the sound makes the pain in Will’s neck seem suddenly unimportant.

“You didn’t almost die.” He pauses, then, mouth going tight. “Did you?”

Will takes his hand and laughs. “No, I meant it, I’m okay.” 

“Okay enough to play next week?”

He freezes, almost unable to believe that the first thing out of his mouth wasn't a question about the final score (who even is he?). “We’re going to the finals?”

Derek grins, and the way it lights up his eyes takes Will's breath away. “Fuckin’ right, we are.”

Will throws his good side against Derek and shouts, “Thank _ fuck! _” and then sits back so he can look Derek in the eye when he declares, “We’re gonna fucking win.”

And then they do.

It’s everything Will wanted it to be, except for the fact that his captain isn’t on the ice when the buzzer sounds, but Derek _ is _ there, and he throws himself at Will who can’t even feel the pain in his neck right now because Derek is screaming and he’s screaming and the underclassmen are screaming and Chowder is crying and everything is fucking perfect. At some point, he spots his family, banging on the glass and holding up signs and his sisters are wearing jerseys with Poindexter on the back and his brother is _ here _ and his mom is crying and okay, so Will might be crying a little, too, then Derek--who is _ definitely _crying-- is pulling him back toward the team and there’s more yelling and in that moment, surrounded by his best friends, his team, his boyfriend, Will thinks he’s never been so happy.

The next afternoon, Will is alone in the Haus. 

Bitty is still out celebrating with Jack and Chowder with Caitlin, Oillie and Wicky are on supply run for the Encore Kegster happening tonight (even though they’re all still hungover from the last one), and Derek had to meet with a poetry group.

“Right now, really?” Will had groaned when Derek pulled away, climbing out of Will's lap and rolling off his bed. “We finally have the Haus to ourselves.”

“I am _ not _having sex with you while there are still stitches in your neck,” he’d replied, before ducking his head and admitting, “Plus, this poem is important to me, I really want it to be perfect.”

“I’m sure it’s already perfect.” Will had pulled him in for one last kiss. “And, for the record, there are only four stitches in my neck.”

Derek groaned. “There would’ve been _ none _if you hadn’t slammed that guy against the boards like a fucking goon.”

Will made a face. “He almost crushed Chowder.”

“You could’ve just told me, a guy with no stitches in his neck, to do it.” 

“Sure, but that’s no fun.”

Derek laughed against his lips. “I’ll see you later, babe.”

As Will rummages through the fridge, trying to decide if it’s worth trying to cook something before the Kegster, or if he should just order pizza, he thinks about how dating Derek is a lot like being his best friend, except now when they tease each other, they exchange kisses instead of smiles, they hold hands instead of just bumping their shoulders together. There are more hugs, more fond looks, more soft words exchanged in the dark. It's only been twelve days since Will was pushed (sliced?) into taking that risk, but it feels like they've been together for years.

Or, at the very least, that they've been drifting towards togetherness for as long as they've known each other. It's easy in a way so few things in his life are. It's good.

So good that he's smiling into the refrigerator like a freak while trying to decide if Derek has enough vegan mozzarella left to throw on a veggie pizza from Vinnie's, when he hears the front door open.

“What’s up, babe?” he hollers. “Forget something?”

When he gets no response, he frowns and shuts the fridge, poking his head out into the hall.

His stomach sinks to the floor.

“What are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY
> 
> finals are almost over so I promise to not make y'all wait a month before the next update!
> 
> please yell at me in the comments or, better yet, on tumblr: thechoicewasallmine  
(don't actually yell, tho. i'll cry.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY IM SORRY
> 
> tw: homophobic slurs, racial slurs, domestic abuse, injuries, blood mention  
this one is a little violent

Will received his first hockey stick when he was three years old.

It was a Christmas gift from his dad, eighteen inches of adjustable plastic, red and blue and green, and he carried it everywhere. It had its own chair at the dinner table, he’d set it next to the potty to keep him company, and it slept under his bed, “so I can protect it”, he’d told daddy proudly.

It was one of his many possessions that got misplaced (thrown out) in the frenzied rush of the move after their house foreclosed, but hockey sticks still bring him comfort the way that first one had. They’re a constant in his life, a tool that allows him to attend a school he loves, a symbol of his hard work, there’s just something soothing about the weight of it in his hands that makes him feel at home.

But when he sees his Uncle John walk through the entryway of the Haus with a hockey stick in his hand, he feels nothing close to comfort.

He notes, absently, as John ignores him and wanders into the living room, that the stick is Tango’s, something he knows because he’s the alternate of this team and therefore knows little details like whose stick is whose and which of the guys has the best tape job (Whiskey) and who has the worst (Wicks) and who prefers red Gatorade (Bully) to yellow (Bitty) and who needs the longest warmup (Chowder) and who prefers to save it for the game (Nursey). These are things that he knows.

He also knows that John is drunk. Nevermind the fact that this is true more often than not, he can tell how gone he is by the sway in his walk, the far off look in his eyes, and with a quick glance out the window, Will realizes with a sort of sinking horror that he drove his truck here like this. He must’ve left the hotel at the same time as the rest of the family; they’re all supposed to be on their way to the airport. 

Maybe his mom and his siblings aren’t far behind his uncle. Maybe they’ll walk in that door any minute.

“Why are you here?” Will asks again, jaw tense, stomach churning.

John turns to him, expression unreadable, and studies the stick in his hands. 

There’s a long pause before he asks, gruffly, “This belong to that queer?”

Will gulps, barely concealing a flinch. “What?”

“That mulatto that just pranced outta here." This time, Will can't hide the flinch as John spits the slur. "This his?”

Fuck,  _ fuck,  _ if John watched Derek leave then heard Will call out “babe” like a fucking moron then he probably knows-- _ fuck.  _

“Uh--no,” he stammers, “no, that’s--that belongs to one of the sophomores.”

“Hmm.” John considers the stick, turning it over in his hands like one would do if they were considering a purchase, and Will takes the reprieve to pull out his phone. With shaking fingers, he fires off three texts to Derek in quick succession.

**john at the haus**

**dont come back alone**

**im scared**

He almost loses it right then, sending that admission to Derek, but he bites the inside of his cheek until he can trust his voice to not break.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way home with--”

“There something you want to tell me, Billy?” he interrupts, surprisingly sharp for a man who’s this inebriated. 

Will’s blood runs cold. “No.”

The stick keeps turning in John’s hands. Over and over. “Yeah? Everyone on this team calls each other names they’re supposed to be calling their women?”

Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck.  _ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He keeps his voice from shaking, but only just. 

John slams the blade of the stick on the ground with a growl, and Will takes a hasty step back. 

“Don’t bullshit me! You a fag now, Billy? This snowflake school turn you into one of them?”

Will’s heart is racing, his hands are shaking, and he’s scared, he’s so fucking scared, but he can’t bring himself to lie about this anymore. He can’t say no. 

His lack of answer is enough. 

“Damn you,” John roars, “I knew this would happen, I knew this school would turn you into a fairy, and it was  _ my job,”  _ he jabs the stick on the floor as he takes a slow stride forward, “to keep that from happening. You know what your daddy said to me before that third tour? You know what his last words to me were?” He takes another step, eyes murderous. “He told me to protect you kids. He wanted to make sure you grew up alright even if he wasn’t there to see it.”

Will digs his nails into his palms and does  _ not  _ let tears pool in his eyes. He can’t trust anything John is saying right now.

“And I did what I could, didn’t I?” he continues, adjusting his grip on the stick. “I put all that money into Declan’s funeral, I took you in when no one else would, I put a roof over your heads and food on the table, I drove your momma to treatments, I taught you how to drive a  _ fucking  _ truck, and this is how you repay me? By getting on your knees for some faggot?”

Will grits his teeth, but says nothing, backing away slowly, arms slightly raised, and trying to head for the door without making it obvious. If John is as drunk as he thinks, Will can probably get out of here before this gets violent.

“How do you think your daddy would feel about you being a fag, huh?” He follows Will around the couch and out into the hall. “You think he would’ve been okay with this?”

The question takes all the air out of Will’s lungs and nearly drops him to his knees right there. 

That’s the fear that fuels his most anxious days, the doubt that keeps him up at night, the shame that makes him hesitate before grabbing Derek’s hand, because the truth is, he doesn’t know. He was too young to understand himself before his dad passed away, too naïve to realize his opinions on these things would matter one day. His dad was a good man, an honest man, but was he homophobic? Even a little bit? Would he have accepted Will as easily as his mother had? Would there have been months of stilted conversations and awkward family dinners until he finally learned to tolerate having a son he would never understand? Would they have grown apart? Would the most important person in his life have decided he didn’t want to take him fishing anymore, didn’t want to spend hours in the garage or on the ice, guiding him through rebuilding an engine or throwing the perfect check? Would his dad still have been his best friend?

The fear and the doubt freeze him where he stands, motionless as John advances. He doesn’t even feel the first hit.

But he hears a loud crack.

He’s on his side without realizing how he got there and looks up to see Tango’s hockey stick raised above John’s head, nothing but fury on his face.

“ _ This  _ is what your father would’ve done to a faggot,” he spits.

Something in Will snaps.

“No!” he roars, catching the stick by the handle before it can reach his face and rips it out of the man’s hands with a strength he didn’t know he had. He uses it to pull himself to his feet--something in his left leg doesn’t feel right, but he barely spares it a thought. 

“My dad was a good man,” he says slowly through gritted teeth, white knuckling the stick like he’s in a face-off circle. “He loved everyone, and he would’ve loved me no matter what.” He believes the words he’s saying. He has to. He can’t accept the alternative. 

John laughs, mouth twisted in a sneer. “I knew that man since the day he was born. He could  _ never  _ love a fag.” 

He reaches for the stick, but Will moves first.

“No!” He throws himself at John, stick raised in front of his chest, and  _ shoves _ , sending him sprawling over the back of the couch and crashing into the coffee table. The wood splinters and collapses under his weight, and distantly, manically, Will notes how expensive that’s going to be to replace.

“You’re wrong,” Will growls lowly. He kicks through pieces of broken wood, coming to stand over his uncle who now looks small and weak and  _ afraid.  _ It makes Will’s lips curl. “My dad was  _ nothing  _ like you. He was kind, and smart, and caring, and brave and  _ you  _ are nothing more than a mean, useless drunk!” He punctuates the statement by throwing the hockey stick aside, then kicks John’s boot, a sharp pain traveling through his leg that he doesn’t let show on his face. “Get the fuck up.”

“Who the  _ fuck  _ do you--”

“Get  _ up _ ,” he snaps, “and get the fuck out of my Haus.”

“You ungrateful little  _ faggot _ ,” John yells as he clumsily gets to his feet.

This time, Will doesn’t back away. He’s not afraid of the piece of wood in John’s clenched fist or the fury in his eyes, doesn’t flinch when he swings because this time, Will swings back. 

He swings and he connects and he doesn’t stop, not until he’s on his knees over his uncle and screaming into his bloody face about how he doesn’t deserve to be treated like this, about how much his dad loved him, screaming until it hurts, until he starts to hear another voice screaming.

“--stop, baby, you gotta stop! C’mon, that’s enough, Will, please, stop!”

Will drops his hands to his sides, chest heaving, and stares numbly at John’s horribly broken nose, notes the stillness in the body underneath him. He’s not sure if things look blurry because there are tears in his eyes, or if it’s just the blood dripping from the cut on his forehead from where John sliced him with the leg of the table. 

“...Will?”

Derek’s voice pierces through and the numbness leaves Will all at once; the gravity of the situation hitting like a truck, and he skitters away from his uncle who is just laying there, groaning quietly, and oh god, oh god, oh--

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he gasps, “fuck,  _ fuck _ .” He looks up at Derek who is standing in the doorway to the living room looking as terrified as Will feels. “What did I do?”

“Baby--” he chokes.

He’s crying, Will realizes. Why is Derek crying?

“What did he do to  _ you _ ?”

He tears his gaze from his boyfriend’s face to find Tango looking pale and nervous.

“This?” Will wipes his hand over the cut above his eyebrow and his hand comes away dripping red. He doesn’t feel it. “It’s nothing.”

“Fuck, Dex,” Bully shakes his head, taking a few hesitant steps towards him (and, god, when did they all get here and how didn’t he notice?), “not your face, your fucking  _ leg _ .”

“What?” He looks down, and at first can’t put the pieces together, can’t understand that the swollen and bent limb belongs to him, can’t feel a thing. He tries to bend his left leg and the sharp pain that travels all the way up into his spine causes him to let out a gasp that's so dramatic, the guys would chirp him for it under normal circumstances but these are  _ not  _ normal circumstances because his left knee is four times bigger than the right and-- “ _ Fuck,  _ shit, fuck! My knee! What did he do to my fucking knee? How can I--what if--I can’t play with--fuck!” 

Derek drops to the floor next to Will and all he can do is grab his arm like a lifeline, dangerously close to losing it when John groans again.

“I’m calling campus police,” Whiskey states as he pulls out his phone, turning for the kitchen. 

He passes Bitty, who is holding a towel and wearing an expression that looks as fragile as Will feels. He hands it to Derek wordlessly before following Whiskey back into the kitchen.

Derek cups Will’s jaw with one hand and gently presses the towel to his forehead with the other. He waits until Will meets his eyes to ask, miserably, “Will, baby, what  _ happened _ ?”

“I--” his voice gets caught in his throat and he has to start again, “I don’t know why he’s here, he just showed up and he kept calling me a faggot and he slashed me with a stick, then I pushed back and--” Derek’s fingers gently pressing into his jaw keep him from hyperventilating.

“That’s my stick,” Tango says numbly, eyes fixed on the hockey stick that is now laying under the windows. “He used my stick to--?” He pauses, blinks. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He bolts for the stairs, Ford following with a somber expression, and now it’s Will’s turn to pause.

“How did you all know to come here?”

“Baby,” Derek says, anguished, “you sent me a 911 text. I put an SOS in the group chat, everyone else is on their way.”

He tries hard to swallow the tears back because his team doesn’t need to see him inconsolable and he worries if the tears start they won’t stop.

Still, he can’t help choking out, “I think--I think my knee is really fucked, Derek.”

Derek’s expression crumples and he bites his lip hard before soothing, “Everything’s gonna be okay,” in a voice that makes Will want to believe him. He then turns his head toward the kitchen and calls, with a note of panic, “Whisk?”

He hurries back into the room with his phone to his ear and reports, “Police and EMTs will be here in five.”

Will feels a sudden rush of dizziness as a new fear occurs to him. “Am I gonna get in trouble for this?” 

“No, absolutely not,” Derek replies resolutely. “This was self-defense, you did nothing wrong.”

He looks back over at his uncle who has yet to move, notices the way his nose is still bleeding, and makes a sound of disbelief. 

Derek turns his head back to face him. “Will, baby, three of my four parents are lawyers. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

“I--okay. Okay.” And then,  _ parents,  _ he thinks, panicked again. “My mom, my family, I have to--”

“I’m already on it,” a voice says, and Will turns to see Chowder standing in the doorway with Will’s own cell in his hands, and his head starts spinning again because when did that  _ happen? _

Derek must notice the shift in his face because he presses his fingers into his jaw again. “It’s going to be okay, Will, you’re not alone in this anymore. We got your back.”

That phrase, their mantra, soothes him the way it always does, and he leans forward to rest his forehead on Derek’s shoulder. 

“Okay,” he says, “okay.”

Despite Derek's soothing presence at his side as he's assessed, stitched, wheeled off for scans, and questioned over and over, Will doesn't breathe, not fully, until he gets the good news. 

"So, it's not my knee?"

The doctor shakes his head, gesturing to the screen where a CT scan of Will's left knee is displayed. "The tendons and ligaments around your knee show no signs of trauma. The fibular fracture is clean and, because it doesn't involve the ankle joint, we're only looking at 6-8 weeks of limited weight bearing. This really is the best case scenario for someone presenting with that much knee swelling."

"Does that mean I can play next season?" he blurts, because he _needs_\--

"Hold your horses there, kiddo. It will take weeks of careful rehabilitation before you're able to jog, let alone ice skate--"

"But, it's possible?"

Instead of being annoyed by the questions, the doctor gives him a muted smile, and nods. "Yes, it's possible."

He turns to Derek, squeezes his hand so tight it must be uncomfortable, because possible is all he needs. 

Later, he’ll have wished he could’ve kept his composure for his mom, that his baby sisters didn’t have to see him crying, but when his family bursts into his hospital room with tears of their own streaming down their faces, he doesn’t stand a chance.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he sobs into his mother’s shoulder, gripping the front of her shirt like his life depends on it. 

She hushes him, doing an excellent job of keeping the tears out of her voice when she says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart.”

“I should’ve told you, I shouldn’t have tried to hide it, I didn’t think he would--”

“It’s not your fault, Will.”

He looks up to meet his brother’s steady gaze.

“I should’ve known something was going on.” He shakes his head sadly, mouth twisting in the way it does when he’s trying not to cry. “I should’ve--”

“Luke, don’t.” Will scrubs at his face, but the effort is futile. “You weren’t even home most of the time, and when you were, I lied--”

“And you’re a terrible liar, Billy.”

The comment makes his chest twist because it’s so similar to what Derek said to him when--

Derek.

Will pulls away from his mother and searches Derek’s face where he’s stood next to Chowder across the room. His stomach drops when he sees the sadness there.

“Will…” he chokes, anguished.

“Derek, I know, I--”

“You said...you told me you would…” he swallows. “You let me believe that your brother knew all this time?”

He’s shaking his head even though what Derek is saying is true, and the pain meds the EMTs gave him are making him dizzy. “I couldn’t tell them, Derek, I couldn’t.”

“You promised me I wouldn’t be the only person who knew you were being abused.” The whole room flinches at the word. “You swore you wouldn’t put that weight on me.”

“I know,” he whispers, defeated, because what else can he say? “Derek, I’m so sorry.”

Derek holds his gaze for another moment, opening and closing his mouth like he doesn’t have the words, then leaves the room. Chowder gives Will a look that he thinks is supposed to be supportive, and follows him.

“Billy?” His mom sits next to him on the bed and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Is Derek the only person you ever talked to about this?”

She sounds a little disappointed, but mostly sad, and he has to clear his throat. 

“I mean, Chowder--Chris, he kinda knew. I never really...I spared him the details.” He clears his throat again. “My therapist knows. I don’t think I was all that honest with her. Didn’t want to freak her out.”

“Why?” Luke breathes, exasperation trying to hide the pain in his voice. “Why didn’t you just tell us?”

“You make us talk about everything, Billy,” Jess starts, having finally gotten her sobs under control, “You always say we have to just talk about things, be honest. You said there’s nothing we can’t tell each other.”

Mandy picks up where she left off, still in hysterics. “How can you say that when you were hiding this from us?”

His face crumples all over again. “I couldn’t--”

“Why, sweetheart?” His mom’s voice breaks. “Why?”

“What were we going to do, mom?” he yells, not out of anger, but fear. Sorrow. “Where would we have gone if we couldn’t live with him? We’re completely dependent on him! What was I supposed to say? ‘I don’t like being yelled at so we have to live on the streets’? It wasn’t that bad, I could handle it--”

“Honey, you didn’t have to.” She’s fully crying now, but presses on. “We would’ve figured something out, I wouldn’t have let you be in danger--”

“I wasn’t in danger--”

“He broke your fucking leg!” Mandy screams, then freezes, the room deadly silent for a horrible, choking beat. 

His mom reaches for her. “Amanda.”

She turns and sprints for the door, crashing into Derek.

He puts his arms out automatically, steadying her, then takes in the tension in the room and Mandy’s sobs that have returned full-force. 

“I got her,” he says, mouth tight, then adds, “There are cops here to talk to you.” He doesn’t look at Will before he turns away and guides Mandy into the hall.

The three of them are furiously wiping the tears off their faces when two officers walk into the room. The fact that they’re both women comforts Will in a way he’s not yet ready to explore. 

“William Poindexter?” the shorter one asks, looking at him with pity-filled eyes. It makes his stomach hurt. “I know you already gave your statement at the scene, but we were hoping we could ask you a few more questions.”

When he nods, the taller office walks closer to his bed and asks, in a no nonsense matter that steadies him, “Do you want to press charges?”

He closes his eyes for a beat, takes a calming breath the way that Lisa taught him, and nods once, definitively. “Yes. I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY SORRY SORRY
> 
> i so did NOT mean to leave y'all with a cliff hanger for MONTHS wow what a dick move. i hate cliff hangers i think they're annoying but i swear i planned to have what i thought was going to be the final chapter posted within 2 weeks.   
then depression hit me like a truck and i plucked away at these 3000 words for months. it wasnt going to go this way, i didnt plan all the violence, then i was outed to a homophobic family member and said ahh yes, more angst.
> 
> the fic isnt done-though hopefully it will be soon-and i know better than to guess when ill be able to post the last chapter. 
> 
> also i apologize for the frenzied mess that is the end of chapter 10, i dont love it and i will fix it when i can. i literally just went: they're boyfriends now. the end. ldkfdgj sorry. 
> 
> THANK YOU to all those who have stuck with this story and made time to leave kudos and comments. this one is special to me and so are all of you.   
until the next one, lots of love xxx


End file.
